


Honour Among Thieves

by CelestialVoid



Series: Fortune Favours The Bold [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Uncharted, Alternate Universe - Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Erica, BAMF Erica Reyes, BAMF Lydia, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Bi Stiles, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Guardians - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Memories, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, There's Probably A Lot Of Typos, Treasure Hunting, Uncharted 2 AU, Uncharted AU, Uncharted: Among Thieves AU, Violence, Work In Progress, Yeti - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles is enlisted to help an old friend break into a museum and steal a centuries-old oil lamp that holds the key to the truth behind Marco Polo’s doomed voyage home from China in 1292 and the priceless treasure that had been lost when the fleet was claimed by the sea. But the truth that Stiles is uncovers is that there is no such thing as honour among thieves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I did not tell half of what I saw for I knew I would not be believed..."  
>  \- Marco Polo on his deathbed, 1324.

The howling winds rolled through the train's carriage. The torn beige fabric of the curtains billowed and cracked as the breeze whipped them about. Flurries of snow drifted in through the shattered windows, glistening shards of glass scattered across the inside of the carriage.

The overhead lights flickered and sparked, the shadows dancing about.

The bitter stench of ash and smoke burnt at his nostrils, making Stiles cough as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

He let out a weak groan as he looked at the old red leather seat that sat in front of him.

His head was spinning, his blood pounding in his ears as he drew in deep breaths. The cold air filled his lugs with ice, the pain burning his chest as he felt the warmth of his body seeped out of the gash in his forehead. A stream of blood coursed down the side of his face, the wound stinging as the salt of his sweat bled into the wound.

He licked at his chapped lips, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth; the rosy-pink flesh of his lip torn open.

He let out a weak groan and tried to turn his head to look around.

"What's going on?" he rasped as he turned to look at the ruined carriage.

He gasped, wincing as searing pain shot up his side.

He looked down at his stomach, his eyes widening in shock as they fell upon the pooling blood that covered his body. The large red stain had seeped into the fabric of his shirt and poured down over his jeans.

He turned his hands over and blinked the haze out of his eyes, looking down at the slick red blood that was smeared across the palms of his hands.

"That's... That's my blood," Stiles muttered, stunned. "That's a lot of my blood."

The tight belt dug into his side, compressing the wound but sending another bolt of excruciating pain through his veins.

Stiles hissed as he as he slumped back against the worn red leather of his seat., fighting the desire to let his eyes fall shut again.

He let out a heavy sigh and turned his head to the side, looking out the shattered window.

He squinted in confusion as he looked out at the dark grey bluffs of the snow-covered rocky cliff.

Reality hit him hard, his eyes flying open wide.

"Oh crap," he whispered.

His chest tightened as he felt the weight of gravity pin him back against his seat.

He heard a quiet groan of strained metal and looked up at the first aid kit that was bolted onto the far wall of the train carriage, by the door that led into the next cart.

Stiles swallowed hard, watching the small metal box sag forward.

There was a loud crash as the kit broke away from the wall.

Stiles dove aside, crying out in pain as the belt dug into his side.

The box smashed into his seat, breaking open and spilling its contents across the carriage. It toppled done through the aisle, bouncing off the seats like a ball in a pinball machine. It smacked into the far door with a loud bang.

Stiles grabbed the bandage that had fallen onto his seat, pulling open the latch of his seat belt and unfastening it. He grabbed one of the scattered gauzes, tore open the packet and pressed it to his bleeding wound. He quickly wound the bandaged around his waist, tying off the ends and securing the gauze in place.

He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his beating heart as his head spun nauseatingly.

There was a thundering rumble as a rusted brown oil drum toppled through the carriage, bouncing off the seat and slamming into the far door.

The hinges gave way and the door broke open, the scattered debris falling into the dark abyss that dwell below.

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, his chest tightening and his eyes growing wide as he looked down. "Oh shit," he gasped.

His seat shuddered beneath him.

"Oh no," he muttered. He shuffled across to the edge of the seat and reached out for the seat across the aisle, wincing as pain shot up his side.

"Shit," he hissed.

He pulled his knees up beneath himself and braced himself against the old leather.

The bolts gave way and the seat broke beneath him.

He kicked off of the seat and leapt to the seats across the aisle. He caught a hold of the arm rest, crying out in pain as his body slammed to a halt. He tightened his grip, his nails scratching at the old leather as the blood-slick hands began to slip.

"No, no, no," he muttered, fighting to keep his hold on the seat.

He clawed at the seat, his fingers sliding across the leather.

He lost his grip, a cry escaping his lips as he fell through the carriage and out the door. His body slammed against the railing, knocking the air from his lungs.

The railing groaned, the metal bars buckled and sloped.

His body rolled to the side.

A panicked cry escaped his lips as he reached out a caught a hold of the railing.

His body jerked to a halt, his legs swinging beneath him. He tensed his arms, tightening his grip on the rail as he held on tight.

"Oh crap," he gasped, letting out a heavy sigh.

He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the haze of his vision as the flurries of snow drifted around him. The icy air stung his cheeks; the pain feeling like needle-like icicles were being raked over his skin. His breath swirled like mist before his face, his lips trembling.

He turned his head to look around.

His heart lurched as his chest tightened, his heart slamming against his ribs. His breath fell short of his lips as he swallowed hard.

"Oh shit," he muttered, looking up at the ruined carriage that hung over the edge of the cliff.

The metal groaned as the carriage rocked on the connecting hitch, the only thing stopping it from plummeting into the abyss was the connected carriage that teetered on the edge of the cliff; wheels hanging over the edge and jarred into place on the rocky bluffs.

Atop of the cliff, the wreckage of the train was ablaze, the crackling tendrils of fire engulfing the air.

Stiles tightened his grip on the rail, his body swinging beneath him as he shuffled across the railing. He made his way towards the roof of the train carriage, his eyes focused on the snow-frosted rungs of the ladder bolted onto the side of the swaying carriage.

The door to the carriage swung on its hinges, creaking and groaning as it rocked back and forth.

The railing shuddered and groaned beneath Stiles' weight, making his heart leap into his throat. The rail gave way, jolting him as the metal buckled and dropped.

Stiles cried out as his tightened his grip on the bar.

His shoulders rose and fell with deep breaths.

"It's okay," he whispered to himself, trying to steady his racing heart. "It's okay."

He slowly shuffled back the other way.

“You just had to be the hero, didn’t you, Stiles?” he scolded himself. “Just had to go and save Lydia…”

He heard a loud thunk as the hinges holding the door gave way. The large metal door broke away from the train, crashing into the railing.

Stiles ducked his head in time to dodge the door as it bounced off the railing and into the chasm below.

The bolts holding the railing in place gave way, the guard breaking away from the platform.

"Whoa!" Stiles shouted, his body tense as the metal buckled and swayed.

He climbed up the broken railing like a ladder, quickly grabbing onto the metal rods of the underside of the train carriage.

He took a second to calm himself, adrenaline pumping through his veins as pain shot up his side.

He blinked the haze out of his eyes and reached up for the metal rods above of him.

He grunted and bit into his lip, tensing his arms and pulling himself up the underside of the carriage.

He dug his feet into the metal framework, scaling it like a ladder.

He grabbed onto the edge of the large square of metal sheeting that formed the pivoting axis of the wheels. His fingers dug into the bolted edges, struggling to hold on as he pulled himself up.

He braced himself against the axis and threw himself up to the latticed metal of a steel grate. He dug his fingers into the holes, crying out as the metal bit into the pale flesh of his fingers.

His fingers stung as the sharp edges tore open the cold flesh, rivulets of blood streaming across his hands as he pulled himself upright.

The train shuddered, a thundering boom echoing through the chasm as the wheels of the higher carriage shifted on the rocky cliff.

Stiles heart hammered against his ribs, his breathing shallow as he swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Large boulders fell away from the cliff side, crashing against the craggy cliff side and knocking chunks of rock free. Other rocks struck the undercarriage of the train, the metal bars bending with an ear-piercing shriek as the rock scratched against the metal.

“Oh, give me a break,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth. He ducked his head, narrowly missing the large boulder that bounced off the chassis and slammed into the pivoted axis.

A thundering boom rang in his ears as the lower wheels broke away from the train, falling into the chasm with an eerie echo.

He reached over for the long yellow pole that ran up the side of the train. He coiled his fingers around metal rail, the paint flaking away and the steel dented and buckled. He felt the cold seep into the palms of his hands as he tightened his grip on the pole and let go of the grate, his body swinging over to the side of the train.

He gasped as he tightened his grip on the pole, digging the soles of his boots into the brackets that fastened the rail to the side of the train, and pulled himself up towards the ridge of the cliff.

The rail shuddered, jolting Stiles' body.

His heart lurched into his throat.

"No," he said warning, glaring at the pole.

The metal groaned and shook again, the bolts straining to hold the brackets in place.

"No, no, no," Stiles whispered pleadingly.

A startled cry escaped his lips as the rail broke away from the side of the train.

The metal buckled and twisted, swinging Stiles around until he slammed into the roof of the train.

He lost his grip on the rail and dropped, his arms and legs flailing as he reached out for something; anything.

His hands caught the frame of the broken escape hatch.

He let out a deep sigh, his breath misting before his face.

The buckled frame of the window dug into his fingers as he pulled himself up, swinging his legs over into the carriage and resting against the frame for a second before dropping back into the carriage.

He braced his feet against the old leather seats and used the backs of the seats and the arm rests to climb up through the cabin. He dug the heel of his boot into one arm rest, reaching across the gaps left behind by the seats that had broken away.

He grabbed the back of a seat and hoisted himself up, feeling it shake beneath his weight. The old bolts groaned, breaking away from the carriage floor.

"Shit," Stiles gasped, leaping to the next seat as the bolts gave way and the heavy leather seats fell through the carriage, bouncing down the aisle before slamming against the door frame with a thundering bang.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

But the relief was short-lived; the seat he was holding onto broke, pivoting on its bolts and crashing into the window.

Stiles cried out in pain as he toppled through the broken window, the jagged shards of glass tearing at the sleeves of his shirt and his exposed skin. He caught the window frame, the shattered glass digging into the palms of his hands.

Streams of blood coursed down his wrists, seeping into his sleeves and dripping from his elbows.

"Shit," he hissed, wincing as pain coursed through his veins and bursts of light and colour erupted in his vision. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze. He tightened his jaw and growled, “What next?”

He drew in a deep breath and moved his hand, pushing aside the broken shards of glass and shuffling over to the edge of the window frame, reaching for the rail that ran along the edge of the train carriage.

His fingertips brushed against the smooth, cold metal; just out of his reach.

The sound of a loud crashed caught his attention. He glanced up and saw a large rock fall from the wall of the cliff and topple down the roof of the carriage.

He ducked aside, hunching over and sheltering his face as the boulder roared past him.

His chest tightened, his breathing shallow and fast.

He glanced up again, watching as snow fell from the edge of the cliff and the rocks groaned and cracked under pressure.

He reached for the ridge of the bolted metal that formed the faded red panels of the train's roof.

He dug his fingers into the ridge, tightening his jaw and holding his breath as he let go of the window frame and let his body swing in open air.

He drew in rugged breaths as he shuffled along the ridge, reached across until he could grab a hold of the rail.

He pulled himself over to the pole, digging his feet into the bracket and clutching the rail. He pressed his forehead to the cold metal, trying to steady his breathing.

His body jerked, his boots slipping from the bracket as the carriage rocked, the adjoined carriage slipped further over the rocky edge of the cliff.

"Oh crap," Stiles muttered, drawing in a deep breath as he looked up at the long rail and told himself, "Keep going, Stiles. Keep going."

He climbed up the rail, tightening his blood-smeared hands around the cold metal and brackets.

He heard the cliff side crackle like thunder as the connected carriage slid further across the snowy ridge.

Stiles flinched as the door in the side of the train broke open with a crack.

He ducked as large metal crates and wooden boxes toppled out of the train and bounced down the roof of the train with a thundering boom.

Stiles reached out for the edge of the door that hung open, pulling himself up and, finally, standing upright. He stepped forward and clambered up onto the end of the cart, onto the small balcony that corrected the carriage.

He climbed up into the adjoining carriage, feeling it shudder and tilt.

And icy chill ran up his spine as he froze in fear.

"Oh no," Stiles whispered. “That’s not good.”

He kicked up his heels and ran down the aisle, staggering and bouncing off the seats as the carriage rocked and groaned. Stiles ran faster, his legs pedalling beneath him as he screwed up his face and forced himself to run faster.

He ran for the open doorway that overlooked the cliff, watching as the snowy plateau began to slide out of sight.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Stiles threw himself forward, jumping out of the falling train cart.

His body slammed into the edge of the cliff as the carriages crashed against the craggy cliff side, bouncing off of the jagged rocks with a thundering crash, the metal buckling and shrieking as it tore apart.

Stiles raked his fingers across the cold rocky plateau, struggling to find a grip among the icy slate. The broken cliff edge dug into his gun, pain radiating through his body. His eyes watered and his arms tensed as searing agony flooded through his veins. He winced, busts of colour and light blinding him.

He blinked the haze out of his eyes.

The small rock he held onto broke away from the cliff's edge.

The icy wind roared past him, a startled cry escaping his lips as he fell. He caught onto a small ledge below the edge of the cliff, digging the toes of his scuffed boots into the rocks. He clawed at the jagged edge of the cliff and pulled himself up onto solid ground.

He rolled onto his back, letting out a heavy sigh. His heart slammed against his ribs, his lungs aching for air as they filled with ice. His breath swirled before his face like wisps of cloud, darkness seeping in around the corner of his vision as he fought to keep his eyes open.

He drew in deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart and steady his breathing.

The warmth of a blazing fire prickled his skin, the warmth seeping into his flesh.

Stiles rolled onto his side, snowflakes clinging to his mole-speckled cheeks as his looked around, eyes wide as he stared at the wreckage of the train.

The large, faded red carriages were derailed, laying on their side among the snow. The metal crates, wooden boxes and oil drums were scattered across the plateau.

He stumbled to his feet, watching as the crackling flames engulfed the bare skeleton of a twisted tree that stood proud among the wreckage.

Beneath his feet, the dark grey slate had been exposed, the thick blanket of snow disturbed by the train cart that had slid across the plateau and off the edge of the cliff.

The cold wind blew through him, tousling his hair and leaving him hollow and shivering. He hunched over himself, hugging his arms and burying his face in the fluttering collar of his shirt as he trudged across the rocky ground and towards one of the toppled train carts.

He staggered and limped over to the blazing wreck, feeling the heat few the roaring flames against his skin. His lips trembled with frail breaths as he stumbled forwards.

The large trunk of the burning tree began to groan and crack, the dark wood splintering as the flames charred the bark and the weight of a flipped train carp bore down on it.

Stiles staggered past in and into the small archway formed by the ruins of the wreckage.

Behind him, there was a thundering crack as the tree gave way, the branches engulfed in flames as they fell to the ground behind him and the toppled carriage landed back on its wheels with a crash.

"Shit," Stiles whispered to himself, flinching away from the fallen tree and making his way through the wreckage.

He rounded the edge of the carriage and found the bloodied body of a mercenary lying still among the snow; his face as pale as the ice and his eyes staring lifelessly at the sky above him.

Stiles stepped over to his side, picking up the pistol that had fallen from the man's grasp. He pulled the .24 calibre ammunition from the man's belt and loaded the gun. He rose to his feet, dusted the snow off the gleaming metal barrel and cocked it.

He set one foot in front of the other, the snow crunching beneath the soles of his boots.

He staggered over to one of the carriages, grabbing the icy handle and pulling the large door open, the large correlated metal rumbling as it rolled back on the snow-filled rails.

He hissed in pain as searing agony tore up his side. "Aw, shit."

He cradled his side, drawing in deep breaths as he blinked the bursts of colour out of his eyes. He stepped inside the carriage, pressing his back against the rippling sheet of metal that made the door as he skirted his way around the blazing fire that consumed the wooden crates. He dragged his feet down the long carriage, leaving a trail of scuffed snow and dripping blood. He made his way over to the far door that was left ajar, digging his fingers into the gap and pulling it back. The door didn't budge.

"Shit," Stiles growled.

He looked down at the floor of the carriage; the wheel had been knocked out of line, the door sitting off the rails.

"It's never easy, is it?" Stiles muttered to himself, his jaw tense with frustration. "Why can't it, for once, just be easy?"

He took a step back, holding onto his bleeding side with one hand as he braced himself and bit into his lip. He leant backwards and slammed the heel of his boot into the door.

The little wheel screeched as it was shoved back across the metal floor, exposing the gleaming silver metal that lay beneath the paint.

He winced in pain, biting into his lip and drawing in breath through his gritted teeth.

“Four months ago, I was sitting on the beach, drinking beer,” Stiles hissed as he braced himself again and kicked the door, harder.

The heavy metal rumbled like thunder, groaning as it slid further back.

He stumbled backwards, staggering to regain his balance.

“Why did I agree to this?” he asked himself as he stepped forward again and readied himself.

He bit into his lip and kicked the door.

The metal let out a loud crash as the wheels fell back into place on the rail and the door slid back slightly, gravity pulling it downwards.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and stepped over to the door. He grabbed the door frame and hurled it back, his ears ringing with the sound of metal grinding against metal as the wheels rolled back on the rail.

Stiles dropped down into the blanket of snow, his feet sinking slightly as the ice crunched beneath him.

He heard the sound of feet falling amongst the snow and turned to see an armoured mercenary cautiously stalking through the wreckage, a semi-automatic rifle in his grasp and his eyes searching the ruins of the train.

The man turned and saw Stiles, his eyes flying open wide. He raised his gun, aiming the barrel at Stiles as he shouted, "He's alive! He's over here."

Stiles raised his pistol, aiming at the small gas canister behind the man.

He fired.

The bullet struck the canister, erupting in a deafening boom as the blast threw the man forward, his body impaled by the broken iron rods that jutted out of the wreck and flames clawing their way up his back.

Stiles cringed at the sight, shuddering as an icy chill ran up his spine and his gut twisted with nausea.

He forced himself to look away and to keep walking.

He ducked under a stack of broken wooden pallets, heavy iron beams, and toppled crates, dragging his feet through the snow as he made his way through the maze of toppled train carts. He stepped over to another carriage, climbing through the hole that had been blown in the side; the charred metal buckling outwards like the petals of a blooming flower.

He stumbled down to the end of the carriage and threw his shoulder against the large double doors. The metal rumbled and groaned as it gave way, the doors flying wide open. The connected carriage stood on its end; the connecting balcony dug into the snow and the chassis propped up against a rock, leaving the end hanging in the air.

Stiles ducked under the doorway and climbed up the sloping cart. He held his breath as he climbed up, holding onto the scattered seats as burning pain seared the muscles in his legs.

He pulled himself up through the doorway and onto the connecting balcony. The iron coupler clung to that of the other cart, leaving the connected carriage tilted upwards like an opening drawbridge.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, feeling frustration flood his body.

He braced himself against the wall and leapt forward, throwing himself across the gap.

He caught the edge of the adjoining cart, letting out a weak grunt as he pulled himself up. He grabbed onto the railing and swung his legs over, aiming for the door. He let go and slid into the cabin.

His feet struck the large crate that blocked the doorway, grunting as a jolt of pain shot up his legs.

He rose to his feet and steadied himself, looking around the carriage.

Above him, the black metal bars that framed the skylight were broken and twisted like the roots of a tree.

Stiles grabbed the edge of the large crate, digging the toes of his boots into the wooden panelling as he pulled himself upright. He reached out and grabbed the edge of the skylight, digging his fingers into the frame as he hoisted himself out of the carriage.

He planted his feet on the stable metal, looking out over the rocky bluffs, twisted train tracks and derailed carriages. He watched the flickering orange flames dance about.

One of the carriages exploded, the erupting blaze igniting the air and the blast hurling him backwards.

He fell through the skylight, the twisted metal bars scratching open his back.

He struck something solid, letting out a weak grunt before collapsing to the floor of the carriage.

He drew in a deep breath through gritted teeth, his arms trembling as he tried to lift himself off of the floor.

There was another thundering boom as another part of the train exploded.

Another carriage was hurled through the air, slamming into the one he was in.

A panicked scream escaped his lips as carriage overturned, bouncing across the snowy plateau. His arms and legs flailed about as he bounced about inside the carriage, his body slamming into the roof, the walls, and the flooring. His hands desperately raked across every surface inside the carriage, trying to get a grip.

He curled up on himself, using his arms to shield his face as the carriage slammed to a halt

Stiles fell onto his front, his cheek resting against the cold metal plating of the carriage wall.

His body ached, unmoving as the ground beneath him fell away and he sank into darkness.

He felt the heat of the roaring fire prickle his skin, a searing pain crawling over his body.

“Come on, kid,” he heard Chris' voice above the ringing in his ears. “On your feet.”

Stiles let out a weak moan.

“So, you’re giving up?” the man asked. “I never thought you’d break.”

“No,” Stiles rasped, breathless.

“Hmm? What was that?” Chris prompted.

“I will never break,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth.

His body ached as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His feet pedalled beneath him, the snow-crusted shoes slipping across the metal before finally finding grip. He rose to his feet, his vision hazy, his head spinning and his bleeding wound throbbing.

He swayed slightly as he tried to find his bearings.

The windows by his feet overlooked the gut-wrenching drop over the cliff side.

Stiles swallowed hard, dragging his feet over to the broken skylight.

He braced one hand against the frame, his eyes focusing on the twisted yellow rail that ran along the side of the nearby cart.

"Oh man," he sighed. "I am tired of climbing shit."

He drew in a deep breath, letting his hands fall by his side as he readied himself to jump. He threw himself forward, grabbing the railing.

He cried out in pain as he caught the bar, the cold stinging his hands as his body swung beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and began to shuffle along the rail, making his way towards the buckled sheet of metal that hung from the bottom of the carriage.

He reached out and grabbed the edge of the metal grate, digging his fingers into the lattice as he pulled himself up into the carriage.

He clutched his side with one hand, staggering forward as he made his way towards the front of the carriage.

He reached the door, pushing his weight against the metal.

It buckled beneath his weight. He fell forward, collapsing to the ground and rolling out into the slush.

His breath rolled across his lips in raspy wisps as he staggered to his feet again.

He ran the back of his sleeve across his face, wiping away the snow that clung to his cheeks.

The howling winds tore through him, the flurries of snow blinding as the blizzard set in.

Stiles forced his legs to move, dragging his feet through the snow as he staggered through the train wreck.

His legs grew heavy, the snow clinging to his jeans and weighing down his legs as Stiles dragged them through the slush.

He shivered, hugging himself and hunching over; his lips trembling and his body shuddering as the icy air tore through him and the warmth of his body seeped out through his bleeding wounds.

He blinked the haze out of his eyes, looking through the swirling snow.

His eyes fell upon an ornate dagger that jutted out of the snow; the silver metal gleaming against the pristine white.

The metal was twisted to into the shape of three demonic faces that were fitted around the hilt, framing the vibrant blue sapphire that was fixed into the pommel.

He fell to his knees and pulled it out of the snow, revealing the three-pointed blade of the Phurba.

He tightened his grip around the blade, dragging his body over to a nearby cluster of snow-crusted rocks. He slumped back against the boulders, letting out heavy sigh as he looked down at the dagger in his hands.

He balled his fists around the hilt, his head falling forward and his eyes fluttering shut as he let his body fall into nothingness.

 

 

Stiles sat at the stone bar of the small, beach-side shack. The sound of searching gulls and rolling waves filled his ears and every breath he drew in smelt of the salty sea.

He stared down at the beads of condensation that gathered on the glass of his beer bottle, watching as they slid across the cool glass and melted together to form rivulets.

Stiles drew in a heavy breath and picked up his beer, lifting it to his lips and taking a swig of the bitter alcohol before setting it back down on the counter again.

A cool shadow passed over him as a man stepped up to his side and leant on the bar.

"Hey, sailor," a familiar voice greeted. "Buy me a drink?"

Stiles glanced up at the man, blinking rapidly as he looked up at the young man's face.

"Jackson?" Stiles said, stunned. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too," Jackson teased, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. "I'm actually here looking for someone."

"Who?" Stiles asked.

"You," Jackson answered.

"Uh-oh," Stiles muttered. He let out a weak chuckle as he sat back on his stool and took another sip of his beer. "Should I be flattered or worried?"

"Maybe a bit of both," Jackson replied.

Stiles let out another dry laugh.

Jackson reached over and snatched Stiles' beer off the counter.

"C'mere," Jackson called as he stepped away from the bar and over to one of the small wooden tables that sat nearby.

Stiles reluctantly followed him over to the small table, slumping down on one of the chairs.

Jackson set the beer down on the table in front of Stiles.

"I've got a job for us," he said excitedly.

"Really?"

"A client is willing to part with a huge sum of cash if we 'acquire' a certain object for him," Jackson said.

Stiles leant forward on the table. "All right, I'm listening."

Jackson set a slim black folder down on the table. He opened it up and slid a pamphlet across the table.

Stiles looked down at the pamphlet, his gut twisting as he looked at the photographs of familiar the museum's buildings.

"No," he said firmly shaking his head. A dry laugh escaped his lips as he pushed the pamphlet back across the table. "No way, you're out of your mind."

"Just hear me out," Jackson pleaded.

"Jackson, we both know two people who were killed trying to lift something out of this place," Stiles objected.

"And one who made it out," Jackson countered.

"Yeah, barely," Stiles replied, cringing at the memory of the heist.

"I can't do this without you, Stiles," Jackson said quietly. "You're the only one who cracked it, and you know better than anyone it's a two man job."

"Three," Stiles corrected. "It's a three man job actually."

Jackson looked up. "Speaking of which, here she comes now."

A young woman stepped over to the edge of the table, setting a round of beers down before them.

A flowing curtain of copper curls bounced off her shoulders, making her pale skin look radiant in the glow of the sunlight. She wore a pale pink dress with a floral design and ankle boots. Her rosy pink lips were tilted up in a sweet smile as she turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles blinked, stunned. "Uh, wha-?"

"Lydia Martin," she greeted, holding out her hand.

Stiles reached out and shook it, still staring at her in shock as he stammered, "Stiles... Stilinski." He cleared his throat and more confidently said, "Stiles Stilinski."

Lydia flashed him a charming smile before stepping around Jackson's seat, brushing her hand across the young man's broad shoulders as she said, "Hello, Jackson."

She sat down in the seat across the table from both of them.

"Lydia's one of the best driver's in our line of work," Jackson explained. "She'll take good care of us."

"I bet," Stiles muttered.

"Alright, look," Jackson said, his voice low and quiet. "I've got it all figured out. We go in through the sewers-"

"I'm loving this plan so far," Stiles said sarcastically.

Jackson ignored him and continued, "That puts us in the courtyard. From there we scale up the wall, run across the rooftops, and just drop down into the exhibit hall. We get what we need and we get out. Easy. And what is worth all this trouble, I hear you ask...?"

"I didn't, but go on," Stiles prompted.

Jackson opened the pamphlet and pointed at one of the artefacts that had been circled in red pen, a small blue oil lamp.

"That's it?" Stiles asked, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Some guy's willing to pay us a ton of money to nick an oil lamp?"

"Yeah."

Stiles frowned in confusion. "It's worthless. I don't get it."

"Neither do we," Lydia admitted. "That's why we tracked you down."

"Well, it sounds like you're working for a nutcase," Stiles said, sitting back in his chair. "Some collector, who's got too much time and money on their hands. And by the way, this-" He tapped the photo on the pamphlet. "-is not worth it."

"There's more," Jackson told him, pulling another piece of paper out of the folder. He slid it across the table to Stiles as he asked, "How's your thirteenth century Latin?"

Stiles picked the piece of paper up off of the table and looked at it. It was a photocopied image of an old note with scrawls of black ink in neat writing.

Stiles' eyes widened with shock as he read it.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"I, uh... 'borrowed' it from the files of the nutcase who's hiring us," Jackson answered.

"I was able to translate it, but I can't make sense of it," Lydia added.

"' _In Trebizond we were set upon by thieves. Father, Maffeo and I were robbed of our greatest treasures..._ '," Stiles translated. He looked up at Jackson. "This was written by Marco Polo."

"That much we were able to work out," Lydia replied.

"Unfortunately, the rest of it is nonsense," Jackson added.

Stiles held up his hand to silence him. "Wait, hold on..." His eyes rolled over the page as he read, "' _So that it should not fall into the wrong hands, I concealed my great sorrow in the unlikeliest place. The light of the Great Khan shelters the fate of the thirteen._ '"

"See?" Jackson said. "Nonsense."

"Maybe not," Lydia muttered. "He's talking about the lost fleet."

"Exactly," Stiles confirmed.

Jackson frowned in confusion. "The what?"

"The lost fleet," Stiles repeated. "Marco Polo leaves China with six hundred passengers and fourteen ships, loaded down with treasure from Kublai Khan. Now, he lands in Persia a year and a half later with only one ship left, and only eighteen passengers. Now, he recorded every detail of his journey but he never told anyone about what happened to all those ships and the passengers."

"So," Lydia stated slowly, "somewhere out there, there's thirteen ships, loaded with the emperor's treasure, waiting to be found."

"I think that's what your client is after," Stiles said.

He reached forward and picked up the pamphlet, looking at the photograph of the old oil lamp closely.

"The lamp is covered in Mongolian script," he announced. "It must have been a gift from Kublai Khan."

"'The light of the Great Khan - shelters the fate of the thirteen,'" Jackson repeated.

"I'd say Marco Polo hid something inside this lamp," Stiles said. "Something that pinpoints the site of the lost fleet."

"So, we're going to steal the lamp?" Lydia asked.

Stiles sat back in his seat with a dejected sigh. "Yes."

"And we're going to dick this client over?" Lydia added.

"Yep," Stiles replied.

"I like sound of that," Lydia said a coy smile lifting the corners of her lips.

Jackson reached forward and picked his beer up off the table. He held it up, his cold blue eyes focused on Stiles ask he asked, "Are you in?"

Lydia reached forward and picked up her beer, holding it up too.

Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine, I'm in," he said, reaching forward to pick up his bottle and raised it to theirs, the glass clinking together. "What could possibly go wrong?"


	2. Chapter 2

There was a thundering bang as the guards fired at them, bullets ricocheting off of the large ventilation shafts and thick iron pipes.

Stiles flinched, turning his face away as sparks rained around him. He pulled himself up onto the roof.

"Go, go, go," Scott encouraged, pushing Stiles and Theo ahead of him.

They scrambled across the rooftops, skirting around the narrow pathways framed by old brick walls and chain link fences that were lined with barbed wire.

Theo leapt across a large gap, landing on a slanted iron roof. He grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

Stiles followed, landing on the iron with a rumbling boom. The roof shuddered, the metal buckling beneath his boots. There was a loud shriek as the rusted metal broke away from the bolts that held it in place.

"Stiles!" Scott cried out.

Stiles let out a startled cry as he fell down into the courtyard. He hit the ground with a solid thud, wincing in pain. He shielded his face as the sheets of corrugated metal fell around him.

He rolled onto his side, letting out a weak groan as he stumbled to his feet.

A figure charged at him, slamming their fist into his jaw.

Stiles staggered back, quickly regaining his balance as he glared at the guard who charged towards him, clenching and unfurling his fists. He cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, fists raised.

"Seriously?" Stiles muttered, staring at the man, unamused. He shook his head and squared up, ready to fight. "Alright. Let's go."

The guard lunged forward, swinging his fist.

Stiles ducked to the side, grabbing the man's wrist and slamming the palm of his hand into the man's shoulder. He heard a gut-wrenching crack as the man's shoulder broke away from the socket.

Another guard grabbed him from behind, hooking their arms under his and pulling him back into a full nelson.

Stiles swore under his breath as he thrashed about in the man's hold.

Another guard stepped forward, slamming his fist into Stiles' gut.

"Stiles!" Scott howled, dropping down from the rooftops and tackling the guard to the ground in front of him.

Stiles thrashed about in the man's hold, breaking free enough to slam his elbow into the man's ribs.

The guard cried out in pain and let go of Stiles.

Stiles stumbled forward and spun around, but Scott was already on his feet.

Scott threw himself forward, slamming his fist into the guard's jaw and knocking him back against the wall.

The man's body slumped to the ground.

Stiles spun around and ran at another guard, leaping into the air and slamming the sole of his boot against the guard's face.

The man went down with a heavy thud.

Stiles fell to the ground, tensing his jaw as he leapt back up to his feet. He spun around, his eyes falling on Scott as he fought off another guard.

Stiles ran forward and grabbed the man's arms pulling him back. He slammed his fist into the man's gut.

He doubled over gasping for air.

Stiles shoved him back and slammed his fist into the man's face, knocking him to the ground.

Stiles and Scott stood still for a second, looking down at the guard's sprawled body.

Scott gently patted Stiles' shoulder. "We need to catch up with Theo."

Stiles looked at his friend, squinting judgmentally as he said, "I thought you trusted him."

"I do," Scott replied before hesitantly adding, "to a point."

"He's going to leave without us, isn't he?" Stiles asked.

"Not if we're quick," Scott argued. He hurried over to a stack of heavy metal crates and wooden boxes stamped with red labels. "Come on."

Stiles stepped over to his side, pushing his shoulder against the crates. He gritted his teeth and groaned as they shoved the boxes out of the way, revealing the metal grate that covered a large vent.

Scott crouched and pulled the grate open.

"After you," he said, ushering Stiles into the vents.

Stiles crouched low, crawling into the vents. The walls were lined with large metal pipes, the confined space filled with the smell of mildew that burnt at his nostrils.

He made his way around the snaking corners, passing the grates that led into the halls of the buildings. Stiles swallowed hard and moved slowly, watching as the guards paced back and forth.

"This place is like a maze," Scott commented as he followed Stiles through the labyrinth of twisting tunnels.

"Yeah, it's almost as if they don't want us to leave or something," Stiles said sarcastically as he crawled out of the vent.

Scott crawled out behind him and shot a dirty glare at the young man.

Stiles ignored him, turning to look around the small courtyard, crossing over to a flight of stairs that led to the higher level.

They bounded up the stairs.

Stiles skidded to a halt, his heart skipping a beat.

A guard stood before them, his semi-automatic raised and aimed at them as he shouted, "No te muevas!"

Stiles and Scott reluctantly raised their hands.

"For the record," Stiles muttered. "I blame you."

Scott nodded curtly. "Fair enough."

A figure crept up behind the man, a lead pipe in their hand. They swung the pipe, hitting the guard over the back of his head.

The man's body jolted and collapsed to the ground.

Stiles looked up at their saviour.

The young man flashed them a mischievous grin as he dropped the rusting lead pipe and said, "Hola, amigos."

"Theo," Scott sighed with relief.

"I'm glad to see you two made it out alive," Theo said quietly. "We're close." He nodded over his shoulder at the large red and white tower beyond the fence. "There's the lighthouse. Like I said, stick to the plan."

"Don't get too excited," Stiles muttered. "We're not in the clear yet."

Scott gently patted Stiles' shoulder. "Let's go."

Theo led the way, leaping from the elevated platform over to the nearby rooftop. They ran towards one of the far towers, jumping over to the tower and climbing up the uneven brickwork and ridges as the guards scurried about below, shouting orders.

Stiles pulled himself up onto the level ground, looking across the rooftops to the perimeter fence and the lush greenery beyond it.

"Come on," Theo said, throwing himself onto the first rooftop.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder. "Scott?"

"I'm alright," his friend called back, pulling himself up into the tower. "Keep going. I'm right behind you."

Stiles nodded and followed Theo, leaping across the gap and onto the old metal roof of the first building. The soles of his boots slipped on the rippling metal sheets as he climbed up onto the flat surface of the rooftop. His legs pedalled beneath him as he sprinted across to the next roof and ran down the slanted corrugated iron.

His heart skipped a beat, his stomach lurching as he looked across the gap between the houses.

"Aw hell," he muttered as he threw himself forward.

He dropped, his arms flailing as he reached out for something to grab a hold of.

His fingers brushed against the bars on the window. He caught the edge of the windowsill, his body slamming into the solid brick.

He let out a pained grunt, gritting his teeth as he reached up and climbed up to the roof. He grabbed the edge of the roof, the broken brick and rough concrete tearing at the skin of his fingers as he pulled himself up.

There was a thundering crack as one of the guards fired at him.

He dove behind an old metal vent, the sound of bullets tearing through the aluminium ringing in his ears.

Theo pulled at his sleeve and shouted, "Get to the wall, now!"

Stiles spun around and called out, "Scott?"

"Keep going!" Scott insisted.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and ran after Theo. He leapt to the farthest house, grabbing the old rusting pipe that was bolted to the wall.

The pipe shrieked, the rust tearing though the metal and weakening it until it broke away from the wall.

Stiles cried out as he kicked off the wall and grabbed the edge of the roof. He hoisted himself up and rolled aside, hiding behind one of the large wooden crates that rested on the rooftops.

He ducked his head as bullets struck the crates, chipping off splinters of wood.

He looked back at the other roof, to where Scott hid behind the metal railing; sheltered from gunfire.

Stiles slid out from behind the box.

"Scott, come on," he shouted, holding out his hand. "I'll catch you."

Scott nodded. His legs pedalled beneath him as he kicked off of the roof and threw himself across the gap.

Stiles held his breath, watching as Scott reached out for him. He felt Scott's fingers brush against the underside of his arm, slipping away.

Stiles threw himself forward, catching Scott's wrist. He cried out in pain as Scott's body slammed to a halt, tearing at his arm.

"I've got you," Stiles said through gritted teeth.

He tensed his arm, pushing himself back as he pulled Scott up to the edge of the roof.

Scott reached up with the other arm, pulling himself upwards.

There was a thundering bang as a gun fired, the bullets chipping away at the brick.

Stiles ducked, shielding his eyes as the shots struck the metal railing; sparks flying around him.

He felt his heart slam against his ribs, his shoulders rising and falling with broken breaths as he slowly blinked his eyes open and looked at his friend.

Scott met his gaze, his dark brown eyes full of shock as they glistened with welling tears.

Stiles felt his heart sink, his eyes widening with fear as reality hit him. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as he uttered, "Scott?"

Scott smiled weakly, the corners of his lips twitching upwards ever so slightly.

"Scott," Stiles muttered, pleadingly. "No."

Scott coughed, blood dripping from his lips as his body shuddered in Stiles' hold.

"No, no, no. Scott, hold on." Stiles begged. "Hold on."

Scott lost his grip on the bricks, falling back over the edge of the roof.

"Scott!"

Stiles grabbed Scott's wrist again, dragged forward as Scott dropped. He gritted his teeth fighting to hold onto Scott as he reached down with his other hand. "Give me your hand."

Scott didn't move. He looked up at Stiles with misted brown eyes, a glistening tear caressing his cheek.

"Please, Scott," Stiles shouted over the roaring noise around them, straining his arm as he reached for Scott. He tightened his hold on Scott's wrist, feeling the man's hand slip through his grip. "Come on! Give me your hand!"

Scott's hand slipped through his grasp.

"Scott!" Stiles cried.

He reached out from his friend, but it was too late.

Scott fell from the rooftop. His body hit the rusted metal sheeting below, the corrugated iron buckling and breaking beneath him.

Stiles cried his friend's name, but the sound of his screams didn't reach his ears.

The world around him fell silent as he watched, numb, as Scott's body was engulfed by the shadows below.

He felt sick, hot tears brimming in his eyes as his gut churned. His blood ran cold in his veins, his lips trembling and his throat dry as he uttered his friend's name again, "Scott..."

He felt his body hurled backwards as Theo pulled him back onto the rooftop, narrowly missing the bullets that flew past.

"We've got to move," Theo insisted.

"No," Stiles argued. "He's still down there."

"He's gone, Stiles," Theo said firmly. "The boat is just beyond the wall. We need to go, now."

"No," Stiles muttered, his vision streaked with bursts of colour as glistening tears welled in his eyes. Stiles slowly shook his head. "I can't... I can't leave him."

"Stiles," Theo snapped. "Scott is dead. You can either come with me or join him."

Stiles didn't react.

"Have it your way!" Theo shouted, rising to his feet and running for the railing.

Stiles swallowed hard, fighting back his tears as he rose to his feet shakily. He staggered forward and ran for the far railing. He bounded up onto the wooden crate and leapt over the perimeter fence. He dropped into the dense greenery.

The soles of his boots scuffed against the rocks that threatened to trip him, his legs pedalling beneath him as he followed Theo through the foliage.

Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. Fallen branches snagged at his ankles, scratching at the rough fabric of his pants and drawing small droplets of blood from the skin beneath. The rough edges of the palm leaves and ferns clawed at him, scratching at his arms and legs.

The world around him faded away, only the sound of his broken breaths reaching his ears.

"Come on!" Theo howled, his voice muted and distant.

"I'm coming!" Stiles shouted back, leaping over falling logs and running through the undergrowth. He broke past the tree line, looking out over the rippling sheet of azure sea that stretched to the far horizon.

He let out a heavy sigh, but the relief was short lived as the ground beneath his feet gave way.

A startled cry broke past his lips as he fell onto his back and slid down the muddy slope, his legs pointed down at the sheer drop over the craggy cliff edge.

He heart lurched as the ground disappeared beneath him, his breath catching in his throat as he was thrown forward.

He looked down and caught a brief glimpse of the boat that sat atop the rippling blue sheet of water.

His heart slammed against his ribs, his chest hollow and aching.

The world around him was silent.

The air rushed past him as he plummeted and crashed into the ocean.

Stiles bolted upright in the bed. He gasped and sputtered, bathed in a cold sweat as he fought back his broken sobs. He gasped for air, shuddering as tears coursed his cheeks.

He took a second to look around as he reminded himself where he was.

He dragged his hand down his face, drawing in deep breaths as he tried to steady his breathing.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dragged his feet over to the door.

He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open.

His eyes flew open wide.

“Hello,” Lydia said lowly, flashing a charming smile as she slouched against the doorframe.

Stiles leant out of the door way, frantically looking down the hallway; checking no one was there.

He hooked his arm around Lydia's waist and pulled her into the room.

"So much for foreplay," Lydia said teasingly. She looked him up and down. "You look like shit. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Stiles said dismissively as he shut the door and locked it. He spun around and looked at her. "Mind telling me what the hell is going on?" he asked, his voice tense.

"You mean with Jackson?" Lydia ventured.

"Yeah, you might've warned me," Stiles growled.

Lydia grinned. "And miss the chance to see that look on your face?"

She took a step backwards, slowly wandering across the room and picking up the small notebook that sat on the dresser.

Besides," she added more seriously, flipping through the pages. "you aren't exactly the easiest person to find."

Stiles snatched the notebook from her hands and uttered, "Talk about making yourself easy."

"Oh," Lydia said knowingly, an amused smile playing across her lips. She pointed an accusing finger at Stiles. "You're not jealous." She took a step closer to him, pressing herself up against his chest. "Let's not forget who walked out on whom, after all. You don't get to be jealous."

Stiles' calves hit the edge of the bed.

Lydia laid her hands on his chest, gently pushing him back against the bed.

Stiles fell back against the mattress.

"Now, wait a minute, Lydia," Stiles started as he sat upright, his words falling short as Lydia clambered up into his lap and straddled his thighs.

"If it makes you feel any better, my relationship with Jackson is strictly professional."

"Really?" Stiles asked, shocked.

Lydia shrugged slightly. "Mostly professional," she corrected.

Stiles sighed and fell back against the blankets, staring up at the ceiling.

"Don't be so dramatic," Lydia chuckled. "When I figured out he was actually onto something, I thought you'd want to be in on the action."

Lydia leant forward, her slender fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. Her hands slid up to his chest before trailing up to his hands, guiding his arms to her hips.

"So, what's the plan?" Stiles asked, trying his best to ignore her advances.

"Just like we said. We pull the heist, we find the ships, and make off with the treasure," Lydia replied.

Stiles pulled his hands away from her hips and sat up on his elbows. He looked at Lydia with a firm gaze, a hint of bitterness in his voice as he added, "With Jackson."

"Mm-hm," Lydia hummed.

"And then?" Stiles prompted.

"And then, we split the take three ways, and you and I just disappear." Her fingers trailed up his chest and looked him in the eye. "Together, this time."

"I see."

"Until then, he can't know about us," Lydia said firmly.

She leant forward and pressed a tender kiss to Stiles' lips.

"He's going to be pissed," Stiles warned.

"He's going to be fine," Lydia said dismissively. She pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back against bed. She leant in close. "Trust me."

 

 

The small boat glided across the waters, leaving foaming wakes across the inky-black water. The only light was that of the moon overhead and the lit-up towers of the museum that sat on the hillside, overlooking Istanbul.

Lydia steered the engine, the small boat driving towards the cliff side on which the museum sat.

Stiles turned his gaze to Jackson, who sat across from him, and asked, "You sure you're up for this?"

"Would you feel better if I had a gun?" Jackson asked.

"We won't need guns," Stiles objected.

"A little insurance, that's all," Jackson argued.

"Jackson, they're just museum guards and we have their patrols all mapped out," Stiles pointed out. "Relax."

"Relax?" Jackson gawked. He let out a burst of laughter. "Have you ever been in a Turkish prison? If we get caught, they'll lock us up and throw away the bloody key, you do realise that, don't you?"

"Better than you do," Stiles muttered.

"Well, you may fancy that kind of thing, but I don't," Jackson replied.

Stiles laughed dryly.

"We can't afford to make any mistakes," Jackson insisted.

"I know,” Stiles said. “We won't."

Jackson opened his mouth to argue when Lydia revved the engine, startling the both of them.

Stiles and Jackson grabbed the ropes on the edge of the boat, their white knuckles threatening to break through their skin as they struggled to hold on.

Lydia swung the boat at a sharp angle, pulling up before the rocky cliff face.

She cut the engine, the rumble dying away into the quiet of the night.

Stiles and Jackson turned and glared at her accusingly.

Lydia glanced between the two of them nonchalantly before gesturing up at the craggy cliff with one hand. "We're here."

Stiles looked up at the cliff, at the large iron outlet pipe that jutted out of the jagged rocks. He let out a heavy sigh and rose shakily to his feet.

"Let's get this over with," he said, reaching up and grabbing the protruding ridges of rock. He dug his fingers into the uneven grooves and hoisted himself up. The toes of his boots scuffed the damp rocks as he found foot holes and pushed himself upward.

He grabbed the damp rim of the iron pipe, feeling the moist slime beneath his fingers as he pulled himself up into the pipe.

The space was big enough for him to crouch, shuffling forwards through the dark, damp pipe.

Finally, the pipe opened up to a larger space.

Stiles dropped down into the shin-deep water, feeling it seep into his jeans as he dragged his feet forward. He pulled his flashlight from his belt and turned it on, the narrow beam piercing the darkness as he looked around.

The walls were made of large bricks, mould and mildew growing across the stone and the mortar. Thin rivulets of water trickled down through the cracks, coursing over the bricks and streaming down into the water that gathered on the ground.

Jackson and Lydia followed, dropping into the water with an echoing splash as they both pulled out their flashlights.

Jackson shone his light down one of the tunnels and said, "This way."

He took the lead, making his way through the ankle-deep water while Stiles and Lydia followed after him.

"So what do we do if they switch the patrols?" Jackson asked.

"We figure it out as we go," Stiles answered, shining his torch on the arching brick walls that they passed.

"We cannot fumble our way through this," Jackson said sharply.

"I don't 'fumble'," Stiles replied, slightly offended. "I improvise."

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Lydia said with a short laugh.

"Yeah, I'm... adaptable," Stiles replied.

Lydia burst out laughing, looking at Stiles in disbelief as she snarkily repeated, "'Adaptable'?"

Jackson shook his head and smirked. "You cocky bastard."

Stiles chuckled, following Jackson as the darkness of the tunnel broke and they stepped out onto a small walkway.

The solid concrete path was framed with a small iron railing that overlooked a rippling stream of water below them.

"There," Jackson said, pointing at the stone archway across from them. "That passage will take us right under the museum."

"The walkway's broken," Stiles pointed out, gesturing to the jagged edge of the broken concrete.

Jackson turned to look at him, a snarky smirk twitching the corners of his lips as he said. "We'll improvise, then."

Stiles rolled his eyes, gently gnawing at his lower lip as he fought the urge to smile.

"Okay," Lydia muttered, turning to her right and shining her torch down another damp tunnel. "And this one here is me."

"All right, remember, that tower's our only way into the exhibit – but we can't even get close with those floodlights on," Stiles said.

"We've gone over this," Lydia replied.

"Just make sure you cut the power by the time we reach the second courtyard," Stiles insisted.

"The lights will be out," Lydia assured him. She glanced over Stiles' shoulder at Jackson. "I'll have the van waiting at the rendezvous point. Just make sure you get your asses out of there in time."

"Alright," Jackson replied. "Enough chatting; let's do this."

Jackson turned and vaulted over the handrail. He landed in the shallow water below with a splash. Stiles heard him slosh through the water as he began to make his way over to the dry path.

Lydia turned and took a step towards her tunnel.

"Lydia," Stiles said quietly.

She turned back around to face him.

Stiles offered her a kind smile as he said, "I'll see you on the other side."

Lydia smiled back. "I'm looking forward to it."

She turned around again and made her way down the dark tunnel.

Stiles watched her leave before stepping back over to the railing. He vaulted over the iron rail and dropped down into the shallow stream. He dragged his feet through the water and stepped up onto a small platform.

He followed Jackson over to the broken ledge of the old walkway. He grabbed the uneven edge of the broken concrete and pulled himself up onto the small platform.

Stiles watched as Jackson skirted over to the edge of the platform and threw himself at the wall. He grabbed a hold of the old pipes and scaling the walls.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Stiles asked, watching as Jackson scurried across the

Jackson climbed over to the far side of the wall.

"Don't I always?" Jackson replied confidently.

Stiles rolled his eyes and leapt over to the wall. He caught a hold of the small iron pipe that was bolted to the wall, the dull blue pain flaking away to expose patches of green, brown and orange where the steel had rusted over. He tightened his grip on the pipe and climbed up it, scaling up towards the concrete ledge above them.

The steel brackets that screwed the pole to the wall began to groan and tremble. The pole shuddered and Stiles instinctively tightened his grip.

He swore under his breath and forced himself to keep going.

He leapt up to the concrete ledge, his body thumping against the brick wall with a painful thud.

He dug his feet into the wall and shuffled along the ledge. He reached out behind himself, kicked off of the wall and threw himself at the jagged edge of the broken platform.

He dug the toe of his boots into the uneven bricks and pushed himself up onto the platform.

"It's just like the good old days, huh?" Jackson said.

"Yeah," Stiles muttered as he rose to his feet and stepped over to Jackson's side. "When were those again?"

Jackson glared at him over his shoulder before turning back to the tunnel.

Stiles pulled out his torch and followed Jackson as they made their way down the tunnel, the water sloshing about their boots as they waded through the shallow water.

They reached a dead end, a solid wall of damp bricks blocking their way.

"Wait, this can't be right," Jackson said, turning about and shining his torch across the water-streaked stone walls. "We must've made a wrong turn somewhere."

Stiles turned about, the light of his torch glistening as it caught the streaming rivulets of water that coursed across the bricks. He glanced up, spotting an old rusted ladder that was bolted to the wall high above them.

"Hey," he muttered, getting Jackson's attention. "What do you bet that takes us right up into the boiler room?"

"And from there, we're in," Jackson said excitedly.

Stiles clipped his torch back onto his belt and said, "Give me a boost."

Jackson stood below the ladder and laced his fingers together.

Stiles set the sole of his boot down on Jackson's hand and kicked off the ground.

Jackson pushed him upwards and Stiles reached for the ladder.

He caught the lower rung, stifling a gasp as the rough, rusted iron tore at the stitches of his gloves and scratched at the palms of his hands. He hoisted his body up and kicked at the rungs, powdery orange rust raining from the latches that held it up as they began to give way.

"Here it comes," Stiles grunted, kicking it again.

The ladder dropped down, the old, rusted metal rattling and screeching as it slid down.

"Thanks," Jackson muttered, climbing up the ladder and following Stiles as he began to climb around the curved walls.

Stiles found grips among the uneven, mouldy brickwork as he climbed around the tunnelling walls and up to another ladder

Stiles caught the bottom of the ladder, tightening his grip on the rungs. He dug his feet into the wall and climbed up towards the heavy iron cover of the manhole.

He glanced over his shoulder at Jackson who was holding onto the lower rungs of the ladder.

"Almost there," he said quietly. "You ready?"

"No guts, no glory," Jackson replied.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and muttered, "Here we go."

He reached up and pushed open the manhole cover, shoving it aside and climbing up into the boiler room. He rose to his feet and looked around.

The walls were covered in stucco, chipped away to reveal the red brick beneath. The concrete floors were covered in small puddles and scattered wooden crates with black text stamped on the side: 'CAUTION: CONTENTS ARE FRAGILE. THIS WAY UP'.

On the far side of the room there was an old wooden sliding door that sat slightly off its rails. Panels of misted, dirt-smeared glass were inset in the doors, obscuring the view of the large generator that was pushed into the corner of the room.

Stiles climbed over one of the large iron pipes, looking around the dully lit room.

On the far wall he found another ladder bolted into the wall, the iron rungs in better condition than any of the other ladders but the sliding rungs that would let the ladder reach the ground were missing.

"Jackson," Stiles called, his voice quiet. He nodded up at the ladder. "Reach up and grab the ladder."

"Okay," Jackson said, stepping over to Stiles side.

Stiles laced his fingers together and braced himself.

Jackson set his boot in Stiles' hand and stepped up.

Stiles gave him a boost and Jackson leapt up to the ladder.

He caught the lower rung and climbed up to the higher level.

"Need a hand?" he called back to Stiles.

"Nah," Stiles said dismissively. "I've got this."

He took a few steps back and ran at the wall. He leapt forward, digging his boots into the cracking stucco and grabbed the ladder. His legs swung below him, kicking at the wall and struggling to find grip as he slowly pulled himself up. He climbed up to the higher level.

He rose to his feet and looked over at Jackson who was staring at him.

"I hate to admit it, but I'm impressed," Jackson confessed.

Stiles smirked and looked around. He nodded towards the narrow hallway beside Jackson and said, "That looks to be the maintenance hallway. It should take us right out to the courtyard.

Stiles followed Jackson as he made his way over to the hallway.

He skirted through the labyrinth of old pipes and ventilation shafts, plumes of steam pouring out from the old fixtures and vents.

"Watch yourself," Stiles warned, grabbing Jackson's shoulder and stopping him as one of the gaskets blew and boiling steam spilled out before him.

Jackson tugged his glove off of his hand and reached forward to hold his hand over the steam. He let out a sharp gasp and jerked his hand back. "Well, we're not getting through this way, not if you want to keep your skin."

"There's got to be a shut-off valve around here somewhere," Stiles muttered, following the bends of the pipe as he made his way back out of the hallway and onto the platform.

He followed the piping along the wall and over to the shut-off valve. He grabbed the wheel and wrenched it. The valve turned, the old metal screeching as it ground against the pipe.

Stiles spun it until it stopped.

"You got it," Jackson called back to him.

He made his way back over to Jackson's side, weaving his way through the labyrinth of metal pipes, ventilation shafts and switch boxes that were bolted onto the wall.

They stepped out onto a rickety platform, feeling the scaffolding waver and groan beneath them.

Jackson jumped over the edge, dropping down the gap and grabbing the yellow bars of the metal scaffolding in front of them. He up the rungs and onto the higher platform. He dug his fingers into the metal grate of the platform, hoisting himself up.

Stiles looked up at the large steel pipe that ran along the roof, a bright orange bar bolted onto the bottom of it.

He took a step back and leapt forward, catching the metal bar.

His body swung beneath him, his legs swaying back and forth.

Stiles tensed his body, swinging himself backwards before hurling himself forward.

He landed on the platform with a thud.

He ignored Jackson and made his way through the archway. He stepped out into a narrow walkway that was sunken beneath ground level. The far wall had large openings with bars fitted into the frames, sitting just above the tiles of the courtyard outside.

Stiles stepped over to the window, craning his head as he looked out into the courtyard and up at the tower that loomed over the rest of the museum.

A pair of polished black boots struck the ground in front of them.

Stiles and Jackson ducked below the window, pressing their backs against the uneven brick wall as the guard walked past.

Stiles let out a deep sigh and turned to Jackson.

"There should be a door just around the corner," he whispered, nodding down the hallway behind Jackson. "That's out access point. Once we're through, just stick to the plan, okay?"

"Tell me you didn't miss this," Jackson said, keeping his voice low.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Stiles replied.

Jackson nodded and made his way down the hallway.

Stiles followed him, stepping around the corner and into a large room with a marble tiled floor.

Scarlet red rugs with unique designs of gold, blue and green stitching were stretched across the floor. Wooden crates, old artefacts and marble statues were scattered about the room.

They crossed the room, bounded up the few steps and over to a large oak door with glossy black tiles fitted into a tessellated pattern in the panels.

Stiles reached forward and jiggled the handle.

"Locked," he whispered, taking a step back from the door.

"Then it's a good thing I came prepared," Jackson said, digging into his back pocket and pulling out a small wallet. He unfolded it and pulled out a lockpick, twirling it about on his fingers before crouching before the door.

Stiles rolled his eyes, taking a step back.

"Wait," Stiles whispered, grabbing Jackson's shoulder and stopping him.

Jackson looked up at him, his brow furrowed with confusion.

"There's an alarm," Stiles said, pointing up at the small black box fixed to the wall above the door where a small red light was lit up. "That's new since last time."

"Great," Jackson hissed, rising to his feet. "Now what?"

"I can disarm it if we can find the junction box," Stiles mused, taking another step back and following the black cables along the walls.

He stepped around the crates and over to a large junction box that was bolted onto the wall.

He grabbed the edge of a wooden crate, climbing up on the stacked boxes and over to the wall. He dug his fingers into the edge of the metal lid and pulled it open. He grabbed the back lever and switched the alarm off.

"That ought to do it," Stiles muttered.

He jumped down from the boxes and stepped back over to Jackson's side. He watched as Jackson picked the lock and pushed the door open.

He looked up at Stiles with a smug smile as he said, "We're in."

They stepped into the hallway, ducking behind the pillars of the archway in the middle of the hall as a guard crossed the far doorway.

"Shit," Stiles hissed.

"I'll let you take this one," Jackson whispered.

"Gee, thanks," Stiles drolled sarcastically.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and braced himself. He leapt out into the hallway and scurried forward. In one swift movement, he slammed his fist into the man's throat, hitting a pressure point.

The man's body jolted before collapsing into Stiles' arms.

"Sweet dreams," Stiles whispered as he laid the man down on the ground.

Jackson hurried over to his side, running ahead of Stiles and crouching behind the carved marble balusters of the balcony's railing.

Stiles crouched low as he stepped over to Jackson's side.

"There's the tower," Jackson said, pointing up at the structure that loomed over them.

"Yeah, but we can only get to it from the roof, and we can't get to the roof from here. We're going to have to make our way to the next courtyard through that gate over there." Stiles pointed down at the heavy iron gate across the far side of the courtyard, sitting beyond another gate and down a flight of stairs.

"Well, let's do it," Jackson said, swiftly vaulting over the railing and dropping down into the courtyard below them.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and followed, dropping into the courtyard and ducking behind the cover of the large flowerbed that sat in the centre of the open space.

The large, leathery leaves of the small palms wavered in the breeze as Stiles watched the guard stroll by the large arching windows of the surrounding hallways.

The guard crossed the courtyard and came to a halt at the corner of the flowerbed.

Stiles crept around the edge of the concrete flower box and crept over to the nearest guard.

He lunged forward and grabbed the man from behind. He clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him backwards until he was off-balance.

The man thrashed about, clawing at Stiles' arms as he tried to break free of his hold.

Stiles fought to hold onto him.

The guard's body fell still, his hands dropping to his sides.

Stiles lowered his hand away from the man's face and dragged the guard's unconscious body over the bench by the flowerbed and laid him down in the concealing shadows.

“Dead end,” Jackson said, looking at the heavy iron gate that stood before them. “The gate we want is through there, but this one’s locked shut.”

Stiles looked up at the two balconies that framed the doorway and the open, carved stone arch on the level above it that led into the lower half of the courtyard.

“There’s an archway up there,” Stiles pointed out. “If we can get up to those balconies, we can cross into the lower half of the courtyard.”

"Okay, how do we get up there?" Jackson asked.

Stiles looked up at the gate.

"Like this."

He leapt forward, grabbing the lattices of welded cast iron bars.

He scaled up the gate like a ladder and leapt to the balcony. He caught the edge of the railing and hauled himself up onto the balcony. He landed on his feet and made his way over to the open archway.

He ducked behind the pillar, pressing his back against the chiselled marble.

"Crap," Stiles uttered under his breath.

Jackson scurried over to the far side of the archway, pressing his back to the stone and peering around the corner at the guards who stood on the other side of the tunnelling arch.

"You take the one on the right. I've got the other one," Jackson whispered.

They sprinted out from behind their cover and ran at the men.

Stiles balled his fist and slammed his knuckles into the guard's jaw, stunning him. He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the carved marble pillar. The man's back hit the stone with a painful crack as Stiles threw the man down to the floor. He pinned him to the tiles and slammed his fist into the man's jaw.

There was a loud crack as bone broke beneath his fist and the man’s head hit the floor with enough force to knock him out.

He staggered back onto his feet, looking over at Jackson who stood over the unconscious body of the other guard.

They crept forward and crouched below the railing of the balcony that overlooked the larger courtyard.

The walkway circled around the courtyard before splitting into two staircases that branched downwards into the courtyard and towards the far gate like the roots of a tree.

At the top of the staircase, a guard stood with his back to them while other guards patrolled the staircases and the courtyard before the gate.

"You go left, I'll go right," Jackson whispered. "Stay low."

Stiles nodded, crouching behind the railing as he quietly made his way along the walkway. He crept up behind the guard.

He grabbed the man from behind, clamping his hand over the man's mouth and pulling him backwards.

The guard thrashes about, his legs kicking beneath him as he fought for balance and his hands raking at Stiles' arms as he tried to break free of his hold.

Stiles fought to keep his hold on the guard and to stifle the man's startled moans.

The guard fell still, his hands falling to his sides as his body fell weakly into Stiles' arms.

Stiles lowered his hand away from the man's face and carefully laid the man's body down on the floor.

Stiles slowly rose to his feet, looking over the edge of the balcony and down at the guard who stopped on the landing below.

Stiles lifted himself onto the railing, perching on the carved marble as he looked down at the guard.

He leapt forward, dropping down on the man.

The guard collapsed beneath him, hitting the ground with a gut-wrenching crack as his head hit the tiles; the blow knocking him unconscious.

Stiles crouched behind the banister, watching as Jackson made his way down the other staircase.

They made their way down onto the lower level.

Stiles sprinted into the shadows, ducking behind one of the large pillars. He glanced around the carved edge at the two guards who stood before the gate.

They were talking quietly to each other, laughing at something as they each turned away and continued their patrol around the courtyard.

Stiles ducked back around the pillar, pushing his back against the stone.

His heart hammered against his ribs, his chest aching as he tried to steady his breathing.

The guard stepped into the shadows.

Stiles grabbed him but the back of his shirt, hurling him aside and slamming him into the pillar. He pulled the man back, turning him around to face him as he balled his fist and slammed it into the man’s jaw.

The man's body jolted, a week breath falling past his lips as he collapsed weakly to the ground.

Stiles made his way over to the large cast iron gate.

After a second, Jackson jogged over to his side.

"We should be able to lift this up and sneak right under," Stiles said, taking a step forward.

"Whoa, not so fast." Jackson grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

Stiles wheeled around, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Jackson pointed up above the gate. "There's another one of those alarms."

Stiles turned around and looked up at the small black box with a blinking red light. He turned back to Jackson. "You want to get this one?"

Jackson returned his gaze, his expression blank.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and said, dryly, "Wait here."

Stiles made his way back up the stairs and onto the higher level. He climbed over the railing and leapt to the rooftop, making his way around the edge of the courtyard and black over to the gate.

Stiles lowered himself down and grabbed a hold of the gutter. He shuffled along the edge of the roof and grabbed a hold of the ridge in the tiling.

Stiles dug his feet into the rough sandstone and turned his body slightly to reach out behind himself with one hand. He tensed his body and kicked off of the wall, throwing himself backwards at the opposing pillar. He caught a hold of the tiled ridge.

He took a second to steady himself before reaching up to the carved trim that ran along the pillars and across the walls. He climbed up and over to the junction box that was bolted onto the brick wall. He pulled open the lid and pulled down the lever, switching off the alarm.

“It’s off,” Jackson told him.

Stiles shut the lid of the junction box and dropped back down to the ground. He stepped over to the gate and slotted his fingers under the bars while Jackson did the same.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Jackson nodded.

“Alright, one, two, three.”

They hoisted the gate up. Stiles felt his muscles burn under the strain, his jaw tense as he hissed, “Okay, go.”

"You got it?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah," Stiles grunted. "Go."

Jackson let go of the gate and crawled under it. He rose to his feet on the other side and held the gate up. “Okay, your turn.”  
Stiles let go of the gate and rolled under. He bounced back to his feet and helped Jackson hold onto the gate.

"All right, lower it. Easy..." Stiles said cautiously as they carefully lowered the gate back into place.

They crept over to the shelter of a carved railing that led down a flight of stairs and into the large courtyard made of dark slate pavers and decorated with flowerbeds full of leathery, broad-leafed palms and vibrant blooming flowers and elegant fountains made of granite.

“All right, we’ve got to cross this courtyard to get onto the roof,” Stiles said quietly.

“We’ve got to take out the guards first,” Jackson pointed out.

Stiles looked at Jackson.

The young man met his gaze, looking at Stiles expectantly.

Stiles sighed. “I’m on it.”

Stiles crept forward, making his way down the staircase and around behind the guard who stood by the fountain.

In one swift movement, he slammed his fist into the man's throat, hitting a pressure point.

The man's body jolted before collapsing into Stiles' arms.

Stiles carefully laid him down on the ground and made his way over to the flowerbed that sat beneath the railing of a landing that lead to large oak doors.

A guard stood on the landing, slouched back against the railing.

Stiles grabbed the edge of the tiled landing, pulling himself up to the railing. He lunged forward, clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him back.

The man flailed about slightly as his body fell back over the banister and against Stiles.

Stiles held his hand over the man’s face, fighting his violent movements as the man’s body fell still, weakening in Stiles’ hold.

Stiles lowered him into the flowerbed and laid him in the concealing shadows.

He made his way over towards the guard who stood by the far staircase, leaning against the large post that framed the landing and watching the far gate.

Stiles stepped up beside the man. He swung his arm backwards, slamming his forearm into the man’s jaw and thumping his head back against the pillar.

The man’s body slumped back against the stone and collapsed to the ground.

The last guard stood at the end of the walkway, patrolling back and forth with a flashlight in his hand.

Stiles stealthily moved forward, standing before the man.

The guard turned around, the light of his torch passing over Stiles’ face.

Stiles lifted his brow and smirked mischievously.

Before the man could react, Stiles slammed his fist into the man’s face. He grabbed the guard’s shoulders and kneed him in the gut, winding him. He let go of the man, letting him stumble back as he tried to straighten his back, and stepped forward, swinging his fist and punching the man in the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

Stiles turned back, looking across the courtyard as Jackson casually made his way over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles turned and made his way over to the staircases that coiled around the edge of the courtyard and led up to the large oak doors. He vaulted over the banister and onto the low rooftop that sat level with the stairs. The smooth metal sheets rumbled quietly beneath his feet as he made his way around the outside of the courtyard.

He stepped up to a brick wall, digging his fingers into the uneven brickwork and hoisting himself up. He climbed up to a window, lacing his fingers through the curved iron bars that were twisted into an elegant design.

He climbed around the edge of the building and grabbed a hold of the window sill, pulling himself up onto the ledge and swinging his legs into the hallway.

He dropped down onto the tiles and waited for Jackson to join him.

They made their way down the hallway and glanced around the corner into the storage room. The large room was filled with wooden crates stamped with the words 'FRAGILE' and 'THIS SIDE UP'. Marble statues and old wooden carts were scattered about the room, draped in dusty white cloths or standing proud among the other artefacts.

A small group of guards wove their way through the artefacts, talking quietly to one another as they patrolled the storage room.

"Aw crap," Stiles whispered, straightening his back and hiding behind the archway. "Now what?"

"Now, we tip the odds in our favour," Jackson said, drawing two small pistols from the small of his back.

Stiles' eyes flew open.

"Guns?" Stiles hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Relax, Gandhi, they're tranquiliser guns," Jackson told him, offering him one of the pistols. "Quiet and non-lethal."

Stiles reluctantly took the gun from Jackson, turning it over in his hand as he inspected it.

"I should warn you, these things have louse range, so you've got to get up close to use them," Jackson said.

"I know how to shoot a gun," Stiles said dryly, cocking the pistol.

Stiles leant around the pillar, aiming his gun and firing.

The dart struck the nearest guard. He let out a weak sigh as he collapsed to the ground.

Another guard noticed, his eyes flying open wide as he watched the other guard fall to the ground.

Stiles fired again, the tranquilliser dart striking the man in the throat. His eyes widened as he plucked the dart from his neck, blinking the haze from his eyes as he looked at the tranquilliser in his hands. His body swayed slightly then collapsed to the ground.

Stiles sprinted forward, staying low as he darted for the cover of one of the large wooden crates. He glanced over the edge of the box and at the guard on the far side of room.

Jackson moved forward to the shelter of a crate across from his.

Stiles pointed at Jackson and then at the guard across the room.

Jackson nodded.

Stiles vaulted over the crates and ducked beneath another, raising his gun as he aimed at the guard who stood on the raised walkway.

He pulled the trigger.

The guard collapsed to the ground.

Stiles glanced across the room to where Jackson wove his way between the artefacts, finding shelter and lining up his shot.

He fired, the dart striking the guard and knocking him out.

"Okay," Jackson said, crossing to the room to Stiles' side. "What now?"

"We need to get up to that walkway," Stiles said pointing up at the walkway above them. "Here, I'll give you a boost."

Stiles positioned himself below the edge of the platform and laced his fingers together.

Jackson set his foot in Stiles' hands and kicked off the ground.

Stiles pushed him upwards.

Jackson caught the edge of the bricks, pulling himself up onto the walkway.

"Come on." Jackson said, laying down on his stomach and holding his hand out to Stiles. "I'll catch you."

Stiles nodded, taking a step back. His legs pedalled beneath him as he sprinted at the wall. He kicked off a crate and threw himself towards the edge, reaching out for Jackson’s outstretched hands.

Jackson caught his wrist.

Stiles’ body slammed against the wall.

"I've got you," Jackson grunted, pulling Stiles up towards the edge of the platform.

Stiles reached up with the other arm and grabbed the edge of the ledge, pulling himself onto the platform.

He rose to his feet and looked around.

"Those rafters will get us onto the rooftop and over to the tower," Stiles said, pointing up at the thick beams that stretched across the roof. "We just need to find a way to get up there."

"Then it's a good thing one of us thought ahead," Jackson boasted as he pulled the coil of rope from his belt. Attached to the end was an iron grappling hook.

Stiles took a step back as Jackson spun it around and hurled the hook up to the rafters. The spike dug into the thick oak, catching the edge of the beam.

Jackson gave the rope a sharp tug, testing to see if it was secure. He let go of the rope, letting it dangle limply over the edge of the walkway as he took a step back and gestured towards the rope. "All yours."

Stiles fought the urge to roll his eyes as he stepped forward and caught a hold of the rope.

The coarse fibres tore at the palms of his hands as he pulled himself upwards.

He grabbed the edge of the rafter and pulled himself up, balancing on the beam as he looked back down at Jackson.

Stiles' heart skipped a beat as he heard the heavy oak doors swing open, the ornate door handles rattling and hinges groaning.

Stiles' eyes flew open wide as the doors behind Jackson opened and a guard stepped into the storage room, his gun raised and trained on Jackson. The guard shouted orders, his booming voice echoing through the room.

Jackson froze. He slowly raised his hands in surrender.

Stiles drew his tranquilliser gun from the small of his back and aimed it at the guard.

He fired, the dart hitting the man's forearm. The man's arm went limp, his eyes fluttering shut as he collapsed to the ground.

Jackson let out a sigh of relief and looked up at Stiles. "Thanks."

Stiles nodded curtly.

"Let's get going before anyone else shows up," Stiles replied, turning to make his way along the rafter. The withered wooden beam creaked and groaned beneath him as he made his way out on to the rooftop, the sweet relief of the cool night breeze rolling over him.

Jackson climbed up to rope, unhooking the grapple and coiling up the rope before making his way out onto the rooftop and standing beside Stiles.

"There's the tower," Stiles said, pointing to the large tower that stood tall above the curved domes of the rooftops.

The tower itself was stunning, made of pale marble stone that never seemed to age or wear. The arches of the windows were decorated with hand-painted tiles with faint blue patters, ornate metal grates with elegant patters that were painted white to blend into the tower, and carved arches that framed each window.

Jackson gently patted Stiles' shoulder. "Let's go."

Stiles made his way around the small rooftop balcony. He vaulted over the railing and dropped down onto the curved rooftop, the smooth plastic rumbling like thunder beneath his feet as he kicked up his heels and ran forward.

Stiles leapt from the rooftop to rooftop, making his way through the labyrinth of small buildings. They scrambled across the rooftops and small rooftop terraces, skirting around the narrow pathways framed by old brick walls and cast iron railings.

He slowed down, dropping down and grabbing a hold of the gutter as he twisted his body and reached out behind himself. He kicked off the wall and threw himself to the other rooftop, hoisting himself up onto the rippling double Roman tiles. He made his way towards one of the smaller towers, pressing his back against the bricks and stepping out onto the small ridge that ran along the outside of the building.

“Don’t look down,” Jackson muttered to himself as he followed Stiles. “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.”

Jackson leapt across a large gap, landing on a slanted iron roof. He grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

Stiles followed, his body slamming into the edge of the roof. His body slid backwards, his hands clawing at the roof for something to grab onto. He caught the edge of the gutter, his body jerking to a halt.

He let out a small sigh, but the relief was short lived.

He heard the metal groan and felt the gutter shudder.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

The gutter broke away from the roof.

He fell.

Jackson dove forward and grabbed his arm.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, voice strained as he struggled to hold onto Stiles.

Stiles caught a glimpse of a uniform beneath him as a guard stepped out into the courtyard.

“Pull me up, pull me up,” Stiles hissed.

“I’m trying,” Jackson replied. “You’ve put on weight.”

Jackson pulled him up towards the roof. Stiles grabbed a hold of the edge and hauled his body up.

“Shit,” he uttered. “That was close.”

“No more curly fries for you,” Jackson replied, slightly out of breath.

Stiles glared at him.

Jackson chuckled dryly.

“Come on,” Stiles said, staggering to his feet. “We’re almost there. Let’s keep moving.”

He led the way around the curved rooftop and over the small concrete parapet, dropping down onto a small platform that overlooked the craggy cliffs.

He could hear the churning waves that crashed against the rocky bluffs below him. He could smell the rich salt of the sea as the foaming water scaled the cliffside.

Jackson pulled the grappling hook off of his belt again, swinging the heavy iron anchor around before hurling it at the wall.

The hook dragged against the brick before hooking onto a small ledge.

Jackson tugged at the rope before holding it out to Stiles. "Once again, you're up."

Stiles took the rope and kicked off the edge of the platform. He dug his boots into the wall and ran along the uneven bricks.

He built up momentum and threw himself forward, catching the edge of a large sandstone brick that jutted out of the wall.

He dug his feet into brickwork and leapt up to the small ridge that ran along the wall. He caught the edge and pulled himself up, reaching upwards. He grabbed the eave and went to pull himself onto the roof when he heard footsteps against the concrete.

He froze, his heart slamming against his ribs as his throat tightened.

"There's a guy above you, there's a guy above you," Jackson said hastily.

Stiles tightened his jaw. He pulled himself upwards and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, dragging him over the edge of the building.

He watched as the man fell, a startled cry escaping his lips before he crashed into the water.

"There's a guy below you, there's a guy below you," Jackson corrected himself.

Stiles rolled his eyes, grabbing the eave again and tensing his body. He pulled himself up to the roof, the jagged metal edge digging into his gut as he lifted one leg up and hoisted himself onto level ground.

Stiles crouched low, hiding behind the brickwork of the belfry as he looked at the tower before them.

"Nearly there," Jackson whispered as he crouched beside Stiles.

"Yeah, but why are the lights still on?" Stiles asked, a sharp edge of nervousness in his voice.

"Lydia will take care of it, don't worry," Jackson reassured him.

"We can't get any closer with the tower lit up like that," Stiles pointed out. "What the hell is she doing?"

"Come on, Lydia," Jackson urged.

One by one, the spotlights illuminating the tower went out, plunging the tower into the darkness of the night.

"That's my girl," Jackson praised.

Stiles rose to his feet. "Come on."

They hurried forward towards the tower, leaping from the rooftops over to one of the arching windows. They skirted along the small tiled ledge and over to another window that sat among the colourful painted tiles.

The window was made of clear glass and framed by bronze bars that were moulded into an elegant pattern and bolted together with a deadlock.

Jackson crouched before it, pulling out his lockpick and making quick work of the lock. He carefully pushed open the window and stepped forward onto the narrow, raised concrete platform that overlooked the exhibition hall.

"All clear," he said.

Stiles pulled a compact rope ladder from his belt and locking it onto the window frame. He threw the other end over the edge of the platform and down to the floor.

He turned to Stiles and bowed mockingly. "Ladies first."

Stiles laughed dryly, shooting Jackson a dirty glare.

"Cute," Stiles said sarcastically. He stepped forward and grabbed the rung, lowering himself over the edge. He climbed down the ladder and dropped down into the exhibition hall, pulling his torch from his belt and weaving his way through the shimmering glass display cases.

Something caught his eye.

A small jade oil lamp with small engravings along the sides sat on a small white stand in one of the display cases towards the centre of the room.

"There it is," Stiles said.

He kicked up his heels and jogged over to the display case.

"Shit," he hissed.

"What?" Jackson asked, slightly panicked.

"There's an acoustic alarm," Stiles told him. "If we can't disable the alarm, that thing's going to go off if we so much as touch the glass."

Jackson held up his lock pick. "No worries. I've got this."

He knelt before the case and quickly disabled the alarm. The front of the the glass case swung open slightly.

"Nice work," Stiles said, clipping his torch back onto his belt before gently pushing open the glass and lifting the oil lamp off of the stand. He felt the cool jade sit in his hands.

"You're sure it's the right one?" Jackson asked.

Stiles looked at the lamp thoughtfully, running the ball of his thumb over the inscriptions and feeling the grooves of the etching in the smooth jade.

"I guess there's only one way to find out," he mused, kneeling down on the tiles. He drew in a deep breath an muttered, "Sorry, Marco."

He smashed the lamp against the floor, fragments of jade scattered across the tiles. A folded piece of paper and a handful of small chunks of blue resin fell out of the lamp.

Stiles picked up the piece of paper, and unfolded it frowning in confusion as he turned it over.

"Aw crap," he muttered.

"What?" Jackson asked.

Stiles held up the piece of paper to show him. "It's blank."

"Shit," Jackson hissed, throwing his hands up in the air. "What the hell do we do now?"

Stiles looked down at the chunks of resin, his brow furrowed as he thought. He picked up a piece and turned it about in his hands. The crumbling edges were like powder but the rest seemed sticky like sap as it warmed up in his hands.

"'...the light of the Great Khan...'l" he muttered. His eyes flew open wide as a thought struck him. "It's resin."

"What?" Jackson asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Stiles.

"Give me your lighter," Stiles instructed, holding out his hand.

"Why?" Jackson asked.

"We don't have time, just give me the damn lighter,"Stiles said firmly.

Jackson dug the lighter out of his pocket and handed it over to Stiles.

Stiles pushed the pieces of resin together in a pile on the floor. He flicked the lighter, the flint sparking before igniting, the small flame flickering in the darkness.

"Is that really a good idea in here?" Jackson asked.

Stiles ignored him, bringing the flame to the clustered resin.

They flinched as It caught fire, bursting to life as a magnificent blue light filled the room.

"Whoa," Jackson muttered, staring at the crackling blue flame in awe.

Stiles picked up the piece of paper he had set aside, holding it over the flame.

The paper darkened against the glowing fire, the light bleeding through the page to reveal scrawls of ink; a sketched map glowed in one corner - a hastily drawn archipelago with an illustration of an mountain glowing blue in the top corner of the paper. Beside the drawings were scrawls of neat writing.

"' _...our ships were driven by a great flood tide into the wilds of Java..._ '," Stiles translated, moving the paper back and forth over the page to read the script.

"Tsunami?" Jackson asked.

"Sounds like it," Stiles replied. "Somewhere off the west coast of Borneo."

"That narrows it down," Jackson drolled sarcastically.

"This mountain must have been the closest landmark where they went aground," Stiles said, pointing at the small illustration in the corner of the piece of paper. "We find that mountain, we find the ships."

"Good work," Jackson said. "Now let's go."

"Wait, there's more. ' _...as if the ocean itself sought to throw off the terrible cargo we carried from Sham-bha-la - the curse of the Cintamani._ '"

Stiles paused.

"Does that mean something to you?" Jackson asked.

"Shambhala," Stiles repeated. "Oh my god..."

"What?" Jackson prompted impatiently.

"Marco Polo found Shambhala," Stiles answered.

Jackson stared at him blankly.

"Shangri-La."

"No way," Jackson uttered breathlessly.

"If they were carrying the Cintamani Stone, it might still be there," Stiles said excitedly.

"This is all very fascinating, but-" Jackson reached over Stiles' shoulder, grabbing the map and folding it up. He tucked it away in his pocket. "-we've really got to go."

"Go," Stiles replied. "I'm right behind you."

Jackson turned and hurried back over to the ladder.

Stiles stomped on the resin, the thick sole of his boot snuffing out the flames.

The light died away.

Stiles turned and made his way over to the far window.

His feet pedalled to a halt as Jackson pulled the ladder up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Stiles hissed.

"Sorry, bud," Jackson said without remorse. "This is where we part ways."

"Jackson, we had a plan."

"No-" Jackson interrupted. "You had a plan. Turns out I've got one of my own."

"Come on, Jackson," Stiles pleaded. "Drop the ladder. Don't be stupid."

"Oh, yeah," Jackson scoffed. "Because you're the mastermind, aren't you? Clever little Stiles, the one who always figures it out. But you overlooked one little detail, didn't you?"

Jackson drew his gun from the small of his back and aimed it at Stiles.

Stiles swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat as he stared up at the gleaming silver barrel.

It wasn't a tranquilliser this time.

Stiles took a step back. "So, what? You're going to shoot me?"

"No, I just need you out of the way for a little while." Jackson turned his gun slightly and fired.

There was a thundering bang as the bullet tore through the display case and shattered the glass.

Stiles flinched shielding his face as glittering fragments of glass rained down over him.

The lights in the exhibit hall turned on, making Stiles wince.

"Shit," Stiles hissed as wailing sirens rang throughout the museum.

He blinked his eyes rapidly and looked up at Jackson.

"You think I didn't know about the ships from the beginning?" Jackson shouted over the blaring alarms. "Any schoolboy could've figured that out."

"Jackson, listen-" Stiles begged.

"Face it, genius. You've been played."

Stiles pivoted on his ankles, running for the main door.

Jackson fired again, shattering the glass case in front of him.

Stiles pedalled backwards, glaring at Jackson.

"Uh-uh," Jackson taunted. "Not yet. I want to give the guards a decent head start."

The trailing sound of men shouting echoed down the hallway as the guards drew near.

"That's my cue," Jackson said. He took a step back, smirking as he said, "No hard feelings, right?"

Stiles tightened his jaw, glaring at the man as he turned and leapt out the window.

Stiles kicked up his heels and sprinted towards the hallway. His feet pedalled beneath him, his body flailing about as he ran for the exit.

There was a thundering rumble as a heavy iron gate fell shut, blocking the exit.

"Shit," Stiles hissed.

The guards rounded the corner.

Stiles dove aside, ducking behind the wall next to them as a group of guards open fired from the other side of the gate.

One bullet tore through his bicep.

He cried out in pain, clutching his arm as searing pain flooded his veins and warm streams of blood spilled over his fingers.

"Ah, shit."

He looked about, desperate to find a way out.

He sprinted over to the open window nearby, vaulting over the frame and dropping down onto the awning. He leapt down to the ground, rolling to a stop and stumbling to his feet.

He froze as four figures stepped forward, guns raised and trained on him. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the unmistakable sound of the weapons being cocked.

Stiles raised his hands in surrender.

One of the guards stepped forward, slamming the heel of their boot into the back of Stiles' knee.

He cried out in pain as he dropped to his knees.

He let out a broken sob, blinking back tears as he turned his gaze to the sky above, watching the stars shimmer as wisps of clouds drifted by. The sound of shouting guards seemed to drift away as he let a heavy sigh fall past his lips and gave up.


	3. Chapter 3

His eyes were fixed on the wall, watching as the shadows moved across the uneven brickwork. He moved his hands, opening and closing them like a puppet as he recited the conversation that had been replaying in his mind for months.

“You overlooked one little detail, didn't you?" he quoted mockingly.

“What?” the other hand-puppet asked.

"Face it, genius. You've been played."

“Oh yeah?” he said, changing his hand’s shadow into the silhouette of a gun. He made the sound of a gunshot, followed by a broken wail as the shadow of the other hand fell away.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway behind him as someone walked up to his cell, their shadow passing over the wall and breaking the illusion.

“Hey, jackass,” Stiles called over his shoulder. “You’re ruining the show.”

“What a shame,” a familiar voice replied sarcastically.

Stiles bolted upright on the rickety old bed, wheeling around and staring at his guest with wide eyes.

“Erica,” he gasped, a smile lighting up his face.

“I can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?” she teased. “How are you doing?”

“I am so glad to see you,” Stiles admitted, looking at her with glimmering brown eyes.

Erica smiled sweetly. She turned and nodded at the guard who stood beside her.

He stepped around her, flicking through the ring of keys before finding the one he wanted. He slotted it into the lock and turned it. The lock shrieked as it was pulled back, the hinges groaning as the door opened.

The guard turned to her and nodded curtly before walking back down the hallway.

Erica stepped into the doorway and looked Stiles over.

Stiles stared at her, stunned. He pointed at the guard and muttered, “How did you-?”

“I had to grease a few palms. It did go through the rest of your money… and a good chunk of my own, but hey...” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

Stiles returned the hug, holding her tight.

“God, you stink,” Erica teased, pulling back and looking at Stiles. “But that beard does look good on you.”

Stiles chuckled. “How did you find me?”

 “A friend of yours asked for my help,” Erica replied.

Stiles’ brow furrowed.

He heard footsteps as another person stepped up to the cell door. He turned to look.

The woman wore a maroon short and a short, blue plaid skirt. Her strawberry blonde hair was braided into a crown around her head, her jade eyes dark as she looked at him. She smiled sweetly as she said, "Hello, Stiles."

"Oh, no," Stiles said sharply, backing up into his cell. "No."

"Now, wait a second," Erica said, trying to calm him.

"Erica, kick her out and shut the door," Stiles said, glaring at Lydia. "We're safer in here."

"Just wait a damn minute," Erica said firmly. "Hear her out."

"Thank you, Erica," Lydia said, stepping into the cell.

"No offence, Erica - but you're not exactly the best judge of character," Stiles pointed out, his eyes darting between the two of them as he stepped into the other corner - staying on the opposite side of the cell to Lydia. "Especially when it comes to women."

"Fair enough," Erica replied with a shrug, leaning back against the open cell door. "Nevertheless..."

She gestured towards Lydia.

Stiles huffed. He folded his arms over his chest and pouted, but he didn't say anything.

Lydia cleared her throat, holding her hand up to her face and wincing at the stench.

"Oh no," Stiles said, guessing her thoughts. "It's not that bad. Look, I have my own bucket." He pointed to the small, stained metal pale in the corner of the room. Stiles took a step forward. "The last place I was in, eight of us had to share."

"Stiles," Lydia started slowly, apologetically.

"You know what? I really appreciate you stopping by," he said sarcastically, his voice sharp and full of rage. But if you and Jackson hadn't have screwed me over in the first place-"

"Now, wait a minute-" Lydia tried to interrupt.

"If you and Jackson hadn't have screwed me over then I wouldn't have been rotting in this shit hole for the last three months," Stiles said bitterly.

"I didn't know!" Lydia shouted.

"Didn't know what, Lydia?" Stiles growled.

"I had nothing to do with it," Lydia said firmly.

Stiles scoffed. "Yeah, right," he said sarcastically.

He sat down on his bed and turned away from her.

"Stiles," Lydia tried, her voice soft.

Stiles ignored her, glowering at the wall in front of him.

Lydia turned to look at Erica. "I told you he wouldn't listen to me."

"Screw this," Erica muttered with a heavy sigh, pushing herself upright. "Stiles, they found the ships."

Stiles turned to look at her, his eyes wide with surprise. "In Borneo?"

"Yep," Erica replied.

"And the Chintamani Stone?" Stiles asked.

Lydia blinked in surprise. "How do you know about that?"

Stiles looked offended. "Do you really think Jackson could have figured that out on his own?"

"Good point," Lydia replied. "And no, they haven't found it yet."

"They?" Stiles asked, frowning in confusion. "What do you mean 'they'?"

"Jackson and his client, Deucalion," Erica answered.

"The war criminal?" Stiles replied, stunned.

"You know, the 'nutcase' we were mean to steal the lamp for," Lydia reminded him. "They've been working together all along."

Stiles let out a sigh, gently gnawing at his lip. "If they haven't found the Stone, that means there's still time."

He turned and pointed at Lydia. "You're going to get us to their dig site. We'll steal the treasure from right under them."

Lydia smirked, a glint of wicked delight in her eye. "They'll never see it coming."

"Yeah, well, payback's a bitch," Stiles growled, storming out of his cell.

 

 

The hot water crashed against his bare back, plumes of steam swirling around him as the gushing water washed away the layers of dirt and grime. He bowed his head, watching as the dirty water swirled around his feet before disappearing down the drain.

He ran his hand down his face, feeling the smooth skin of his clean-shaven jaw.

He let out a heavy sigh as the rivulets of water coursed over his body.

He washed himself and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself off and pulled on a pair of jeans, feeling a sense of comfort in being back in his own clothes again.

He grabbed his shirt and stepped out of the bathroom.

Lydia glanced up as he stepped into the room, catching a glimpse of the pale ridges and scars that covered his body. He pulled his Henley down, covering his old wounds as he stepped over to where Erica sat at the table, leaning back in her chair.

"Beer," she said, holding up the bottle for Stiles to take. She held up a takeout box. "Curly fries."

Stiles took them from her, leaning over and pressing a gently kiss to her cheek. He circled around the table, rifling through the reference books he had pulled off the shelves before Erica had told him to shower. He opened the box of curly fries, absentmindedly picking at them as his dark eyes rolled over the pages of printed text.

"So, this Cintamani Stone," Lydia started slowly, setting down the book she had been reading. "What do we know about it."

Stiles pushed one of the books towards her and pointed towards the illustration of the stunning, dark blue stone with golden vines coiled around it: the Cintamani Stone.

"They called it the 'wish-fulfilling jewel'," Stiles explained. "It's sacred to the Buddhists, and hidden away from the world."

"So it's kind of like the Buddhist 'holy grail'?" Erica proposed.

"Exactly," Stiles replied.

Lydia handed Stiles a piece of paper; a photocopied image of an old, stained piece of paper that had neat scrawls of ink stretched across it.

"It's a page from one of Marco Polo's journals," Lydia explained.

"'In the kingdom of Shambhala lies the most precious thing to be found in all the world - a perfect raw sapphire of the deepest blue, larger around than the reach of a man's arms'," Stiles read, translating the words.

"That's got to be worth millions," Erica muttered in awe.

"There's more of this?" Stiles asked, holding up the photocopied page of the journal.

"Loads more," Lydia replied. "Deucalion paid top dollar for Marco Polo's journals. He's been after the Cintamani Stone for years."

"Well, if he's been counting on Jackson Whittemore to find it for him, it's no wonder he hasn't had any luck," Erica said bluntly, taking a sip of her beer.

Stiles bit into his lip to stop himself from smiling.

"If I can get a look at Deucalion's files, I can find that Stone," Stiles said confidently.

"Hang on a minute," Lydia interrupted. "That's easier said than done. The files are in his tent, and his tent is in the middle of the camp," She explained. "That camp is like an armed compound, there are soldiers everywhere."

"That's why it has to be an inside job," Stiles said, his voice smooth and persuasive as he looked at Lydia with shimmering eyes. "From someone they know and trust."

"Oh," Lydia said dryly, sitting back in her seat. "I see where this is going."

"I just need a diversion," Stiles bargained. "If you can get me five minutes in that tent, that's all it'll take."

"Really? Five minutes?" Lydia asked. "Well, that's great. I won't even have to take my top off."

Stiles blinked, stunned. "Lydia... I was thinking more of an explosion."

"Or that," Lydia said, continuing on as if she had said nothing. "That can be arranged."

"Okay," Stiles muttered. He turned to look at Erica who still sat across the table from them, rocking back on her chair and sipping her beer.

"Are you in?" he asked.

"Oh hell yes," She answered. She lifted her beer to her lips and took another sip, smirking mischievously. "I was in before you were."


	4. Chapter 4

The soles of his thick leather boots scuffed the dirt as they jogged down the track that was carved through the dense jungle. His feet fell among the soft dirt and the clumps of soft grass that broke through the dry earth. Either side of the track were large, moss-covered boulders and thick trees with dry, brown vines draped across the canopy.

Clusters of wild grass and ferns with leaves like curled feathers sprouted in the undergrowth. Bursts of red broke through the greenery as the flowering plants burst into bloom.

Stiles trekked further into the bush, following Erica as she wove her way through the landscape unhindered.

Far in the horizon they could see the rising silhouette of the large mountain that overlooked the valley.

Stiles pressed the button of his earpiece. “Lydia, do you read is?”

The line was silent for a second before Lydia’s voice broke through the static. “Loud and clear.”

“We’re getting close,” Stiles said, dropping down from the small plateau and into the gulley. His boots struck the ground with a heavy thud as he rose to his feet and looked about his surroundings.

A thin veil of mist lingered in the gulley, the slight breeze leaving it undisturbed while it rolled through the tree tops, rustling the leaves.

The rocky walls rose around him, the grey boulders worn away by time and left to look like the palm of a hand; riddled with crevices, grooved and cracks but smooth to touch.

The roots of trees broke through the cracks in the rocks, spindly outgrowths that broke through the dry earth as they stretched in search of water. The towering trees arched over the cavern, casting flickering shadows that offered cool relief to Stiles and Erica as they made their way along the track through the jungle.

 “Okay, I've planted charges all around the perimeter of the camp,” Lydia told them. “You two just need to arm them. The first one should be right ahead of you.”

Stiles stepped down from another small ledge, his feet landing in a shallow stream. The water rose to his shins, seeping into the fabric of his jeans as he waded forward.

He vaulted over a fallen log and made his way down the track until a small strobing green light broke through the fog.

“Found it,” Stiles said, jogging over to the small explosive charge that had been stuck to the rough bark of a fallen tree.

“I also left the detonator for you,” Lydia explained.

Erica picked up the small controller, holding it up for Stiles to see.

Stiles nodded. He pushed down the small buttons on the keypad, typing in the code and arming the device. The green light stopped flashing.

“Alright, first one’s set” he said, stepping back. He turned to look at Erica, his eyes darting from her to the detonator in her hand. “Don’t push that button.”

“This one?” she asked teasingly, pointing at the detonator.

“Knock it off you two,” Lydia warned.

Erica and Stiles chuckled, stepping away from the armed charge and making their way down the track.

“Once you've set all the charges, just hit the detonator and it's showtime,” Lydia explained.

“They’ll never know what hit them,” Erica said with a mischievous smirk.

“Just be careful,” Lydia warned. “Deucalion has got his men posted all around the perimeter, so keep an eye out for patrols.”

“Got it,” Stiles said, grabbing the edge of a small rocky plateau and hoisting himself up onto the ledge. He turned back and held his hand out to Erica.

She pocketed the detonator and reached up, taking a hold of Stiles hand and climbing up to the plateau.

“Good luck,” Lydia said.

“You too,” Stiles replied.

He slid through a small opening in the surrounding rocky walls and found himself in a small hollow, a trickling stream coursing down the rocky walls and pooling on the ground. Around him, large boulders lined the wall, jutting out at different heights and covered in sheets of soft, green moss. Spindly vines and twisted roots wove their way through the openings, lacing together boulders and draped over the edge of the higher plateau.

Stiles followed the edge of the water around to the stacked boulders that jutted out from the wall of the hollow.

He grabbed the mossy edge of the first rock and pulled himself up onto the elevated ledge. He jumped for the next boulder. The toes of his boots scuffed against he rocks as he tried to find leverage and push himself up. The edge of the rock dug into his stomach, his arms aching as his feet finally found the small curve in the rock. He climbed up onto the rock and turned back, holding out his arm for Erica.

Erica kicked off of the stone wall and threw herself across the gap.

Stiles caught her arm, his fingers coiled around her wrist. He stifling a groan as he tensed his body and pulled her up to the ledge.

She grabbed the edge of the stone, digging her boots into the lattive of vines as she pulled herself up to his side.

“You okay?” he asked, quickly looking her over.

Erica nodded, offering him a kind smile as she said. “I’m alright. Let’s get going.”

They stepped up onto the next ridge, climbing a clutser of boulders until they reached a level, grassy plateau.

Before them, the large trees arced into a tunnel over the shallow stream, their folliage casting flickering shadows over them.

Stiles made his way along the riverbed, climbing up the steps carved into the walls by large grey rocks. He stepped up onto level ground, the sound of rustling trees ahead making his heart race.

He stopped, crouching low.

Erica ducked behind a tree that stood across the track from him.

Quiet voices trailed through the forest.

“I count three,” Erica whispered.

“Don’t let them see you,” Lydia warned.

“Okay,” Stiles replied. “We’ll take them out, quietly.”

Stiles crouched low, watching as men in heavy black armour patrolled back and forth on small wooden platforms built across the marsh.

Stiles vaulted the fallen log and crept over to the nearest guard.

He lunged forward, clamped his hand over the man's mouth and pulled him back.

The man flailed about slightly as his body fell back over an ammunition crate.

Stiles balled his fist and slammed it into the man's face.

His body fell still.

Stiles dragged him over the crate and laid him by the roots of a nearby tree.

He crept around the wooden ammuniton crate, his feet falling quietly against the wooden planks of the walkway. He stepped up behind another guard, balled his fists and swung at the man. His knuckles slammed into the man's jaw, knocking him back. Stiles swung again, his fist hit the man's jaw. There was a loud crack as the mercenary's head jerked to the side.

The man staggered backwards and collapsed to the ground.

The last man stood in the lower marsh.

Stiles crept forward across the platforms, bracing himself agaisnt the edge. He dropped down, his boots slamming against the man’s back and knocking him to the ground. The man’s head struck a tree root, his body jolting before his eyes flutttered shut.

Stiles rolled him over, lifting his head out of the water and resting it against the roots. Beads of ruby-red blood bled from the gash above his eyes, mixing with the trails of water that ran down his face.

Stiles rose to his feet, climbing back up onto the platform. He bounded up a small flight of stairs, following the pathway that was cut into the moss-covered rocks of the cavern walls.

He stumbled to a halt, the rocky path breaking away below him. In front of him, a jagged branch jutted out of the rock wall.

He took a step back, braced himself and threw himself forward. He caught the branch, his body swinging beneath him as he hurled himself across tot eh other side of the platform.

Erica followed, landing with a cal-like grace before following Stiles over to a fallen long, the thick trunk covered in pale lichen and lush green moss. The fallen tree bridged the gap that the rushing waterfall bore through the rock.

Stiles set one foot in front of the other, swaying slightly as he made his way across the fallen tree. A fine mist of water brushed against his skin, offering cool relief as he passed the waves of water that crashed against the jagged rocks.

"This way," Stiles said, dropping down to a ledge.

"You should be approaching excavation site one by now," Lydia said quietly.

Stiles heard the unmistakable click of a cocked gun, an icy chill clawing at his spine as his heart skipped a beat.

"Shit," he breathed, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

"We got spotted," Erica whispered.

"Take them out," Lydia said, an edge of panic to her voice. "We can't let them send word back to camp."

Erica and Stiles spun around, slamming their fists into the jaws of the men behind them and knocking them back. Stiles grabbed the one of the mercenaries' gun and wrestled it from their grasp. He slammed the butt of the rifle into the man's face, knocking him aside.

Erica grabbed the other mercenary by his shoulders, pulling him down as she slammed her knee into his gut, making the man choke on his breath.

He staggered backwards and she threw a punch, knocking the man to the ground.

"You good?" Stiles asked.

"I'm good," Erica replied.

"Okay, the camp should be up ahead," Stiles said.

"I've planted four more charges in the camp, but you're going to have to clear the place out before you can arm them," Lydia explained as Stiles and Erica made their way along the muddy train and further into the jungle.

Stiles slowed, crouching behind a large boulder and creeping forward. He glanced around the smooth rock at the figures that moved about the camp. Heavy leather boots walked across the wooden platforms that bridged the muddy trenches and pooling water. Crates of supplies were stacked atop the pleasures that rose above the waterline and metal tables were set up on the platforms under shelter, radio equipment and ammunition supplies set up atop of them.

Stiles pushed his back up against the boulder, turning to look at Erica.

"You ready for this?" he asked.

"Let's do it," she replied.

Stiles crouched low, stepping out from behind the rocky cavern wall and creeping towards the man who stood with his back to them.

Stiles lunged forward, clamping his hand over the man's mouth and pulling him backwards. The mercenary's legs pedalled beneath him as he dropped his gun and struggled against Stiles' grasp.

Stiles bit into his lip, fighting against the man's thrashing body as the mercenary began to weaken in his hold and his body fell limp in Stiles arms. He lowered man's unconscious body to the ground, hiding him from sight behind one of the tables covered in radios and walkie talkies.

Another guard began to to walk towards them, his finger lightly tapping against the side of his gun.

Stiles glanced across at Erica who was crouching behind a nearby tree.

She met his gaze, her face composed as she nodded towards the man.

Stiles watched the guard approach, his mud-caked boots drawing closer. He turned his gaze back to Erica and nodded.

She leapt out from behind the tree, swinging her leg and slamming her steel-toed boot into the man's gut.

The mercenary doubled over, gasping for air as his gun fell from his grip. Erica grabbed his shoulders, pushing him downwards as she swung her leg up, her knee colliding with the man's nose with a gut-wrenching crack. She shoved him back and swung her fist, slamming her knuckles into his jaw and knocking him down.

She hurried over to Stiles' side.

They made their way towards the centre of the camp, staying close to the shadows of the rocky cavern walls. They moved quietly across the campsite, circling around behind one of the patrolling guards.

Stiles crept up behind a fallen log. He grabbed the man by the back of his bulletproof fest, hurling him backwards off his feet.

His body arched over the fallen log.

Stiles slammed his elbow down on the man's face, bone cracking beneath the blow.

The mercenary's body slumped backwards, his head lulling to the side.

Stiles dragged his body over the log and laid him down among the mud.

"There's one more guy," Erica pointed out, nodding towards the mercenary that stood atop a wooden platform.

"I'll take care of him," Stiles replied, his voice a hushed whisper. "You find the charges and arm them. Stay low and don't let him see you."

Erica nodded and turned back the way they had come.

Stiles vaulted the log and made his way towards the platform. He clung to the shadows, staying out of sight as he watched the man pace back and forth. He reached for the ladder and pulled himself up, hoisting himself up to the level platform.

He crept forward.

The guard turned, something across the courtyard catching his eye. He raised his gun, aiming down the barrel of his rifle.

Stiles glanced in the direction that the man was aiming, watching as a figure darted behind a table.

Erica.

"Shit," he hissed. He leapt forward, shoving the man off balance.

The mercenary stumble, the rifle falling from his hands. He staggered backwards, quickly regaining his balance. His head whipped around as he glared at Stiles, his eyes burning with rage. He reached into the small of his back and drew out a black baton.

"Oh crap," Stiles muttered.

He grabbed a broken metal rod that sat on a nearby table, tightening his grip around the thick metal rod as he met the man's fierce glare.

The mercenary lunged forward, his arm raised as he brought it down.

Stiles ducked aside and spun the rod around, smacking the man over the back of the head. He planted the sole of his boot into the man's back, shoving him forward.

the man stumbled slightly by quickly recovered and countered Stiles’ attack, glowering at the young man as he charged at him. He swung his pole in a flurry of savage movements.

Stiles ducked from side to side, dodging the man's attacks. He dropped low and swung his foot around in a circle, knocking the mercenary's feet out from beneath him.

The man hit the ground with a painful thud and bounced back to his feet.

Stiles spun around, thumping the pole against the man’s wrist, the jagged metal tearing at his flesh and disarming him.

The man cried out in pain as he stumbled backwards, clutching his bleeding hand as his baton rolled across the platform.

Stiles moved quickly, swinging the pole into the man's ribs - winding him - before choking up on the pole and swinging it into the man's jaw.

The mercenary's body jerked upright, swaying slightly as he staggered backwards and fell over the side of the railing. His body fell to the ground, landing in the shallow water with a loud crash, the foaming waves erupting around him.

Stiles looked over the edge of the railing, watching the man's unmoving body settle among the water. He tossed the broken metal rod aside and stepped over to the ladder, sliding back down to the walkways that bridged the muddy tracks.

Erica stepped out of the shadows and hurried over to his side. She glanced over at the body of the unconscious guard. "That was a tad bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"He was aiming at you," Stiles pointed out.

"Oh," Erica muttered. "In that case, thank you."

"Did you find the charges?" Stiles asked, tearing his eyes away from the man's body.

"Yep," Erica replied. "I got all four of them. So, what do you say? Shall we pay Deucalion a visit?"

A mischievous smile lifted the corner of Stiles' lips.

They made their way over to the farthest point of the camp, where a ladder was bolted into the cavern walls.

"Think you can reach that?" Erica asked.

"No. I'll give you a boost," Stiles said, lacing his fingers together, crouching down and readying himself. "Come on, gorgeous, jump up."

Erica set her foot down in his hands and kicked off the ground.

He hoisted her upwards.

She caught a hold of the metal rungs, hoisting her body up to the top of the ridge. She pulled herself up onto level ground and turned around, thumping her boot into the lever that held the ladder up and dropping it down to Stiles.

"Thanks," Stiles said as he climbed up to the ridge. He looked around at the campsite; brown canvas tents were set up around the edges of the clearing, heavy hiking packs left lying beside the openings and empty cans of beans and rations left scattered across the damp earth. A jeep was parked towards the end of the path, the back doors hanging open to reveal crates of ammunition and fuel canisters.

"This place looks deserted," Erica mused as she wove through the campsite.

"It doesn't seem right," Stiles said, his stomach churning with unease. "Let's keep moving."

They crossed the clearing and made their way down a track that was worn through the jungle. The broad, leathery leaves of the ferns brushed against them as they wove their way through the undergrowth.

Beads of sweat gathered on Stiles' brow, the droplets caressing his skin as they rolled down the side of his face.

He brushed aside a large palm leaf, ducking beneath it as he stepped into an open hollow, looking over the shimmering shallows of water that pooled beneath a placid waterfall. Around him, large boulders lined the wall, jutting out at different heights and covered in sheets of soft, green moss. Spindly vines and twisted roots wove their way through the openings, lacing together boulders and draped over the edge of the higher plateau. Their path was blocked by a fallen log that sat atop the ridge that overlooked the pooling lake.

Trails of quiet voices reached their ears.

Stiles held a finger to his lips, motioning for Erica to be quiet as they crept forward and ducked beneath the fallen log. They glanced over the rough bark and down at the two men who stood in the lake below, bickering over a malfunctioning water pump.

"They're not armed," Stiles whispered.

"So what are we waiting for?" Erica asked, her voice quiet. "We can take these guys."

"I don't know," Stiles muttered. "Something doesn't feel right."

He turned to look at her, his eyes flying open wide as his words fell short of his lips.

Erica spun around as a third mercenary dropped down, slamming the heel of his boot into her face. She collapsed to the ground.

Stiles drew his gun from the holster strapped to his chest.

The guard caught his wrist, twisting his arm until Stiles' gun fell from his grasp.

Stiles stifled his cry of pain as he slammed his head against the man's.

The mercenary let go of Stiles, stumbling back slightly.

Stiles staggered, his head throbbing. He balled his fists and swung at the man.

The guard ducked aside, tackling Stiles.

Stiles felt his legs collide with the fallen log. He let out a startled cry as he fell backwards, his body weightless as he plummeted into the lake. His body hit the water with a loud crash, the erupting waves pulling him below the surface.

He fought his way back to the surface, but now fast enough.

One of the mercenaries leapt on him, their hands tightening around Stiles’ throat and holding him beneath the surface of the water.

Stiles clawed at the man's hands, but it didn’t make any difference.

His lungs filled with a raging inferno, tears prickling at his eyes as pain flooded his veins.

He thrashed about but he couldn’t get free.

He shut his eyes and held his breath, falling still beneath the undulating waves.

The world around him was muffled, so distant that he seemed to drift away.

_"Get up."_

_Stiles felt searing pain flood his body, his arms and legs trembling as he struggled to his feet. He staggered slightly as he fought to stay upright, his head spinning and his shoulders rising and falling as he heaved in shallow breaths._

_The man swung his arm, his fist colliding with Stiles' jaw._

_The teen fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He rolled onto his front, pushing himself up onto his elbows as he coughed and spluttered. He gasped for air as his mouth filled with the bitter metallic taste of blood. Beads of glistening swear soaked his brow, mingling with the streams of crimson blood as they trailed down his face and fell to the ground, shattering like glass. His heart pounded against his ribs, his arms shaking under the strain of holding his body upright._

_"Get up," Chris repeated, his beep voice echoing in Stiles' mind._

_"I can't," Stiles rasped, blood dripping from his lips._

_“Come on, kid,” Chris encouraged, the cold edge to his voice softening ever so slightly as he stepped around Stiles. “On your feet.”_

_Stiles didn't reply. His shoulders rose and fell with broken breaths, his eyes heavy as darkness lingered in the edges of his vision, ready to pull him into the cool embrace of unconsciousness._

_“So, you’re giving up, huh?” the man asked. There was a better hint of disappointment and sorrow as he added, “I never thought you’d break.”_

_“No,” Stiles rasped, breathless._

_“Hmm? What was that?” Chris said provokingly._

_“I will never break,” Stiles growled through gritted teeth. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it down on the floor. His feet pedalled beneath him as he staggered to his feet._

_Chris smiled, looking at the teen with pride._

_Stiles fought to steady his breathing, his nails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists. He stared at Chris defiantly as he said, "If I go down, I go down fighting."_

_"What was that?" Chris prompted._

_Stiles felt rage flood his veins as he shouted, "If I die, I die fighting!"_

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide, burning with determination and livid with rage.

He reached down to his thigh holster and pulled the knife from its sheath. He swung at the man, lodging the blade in the man's neck.

The mercenary reared back, crying out in pain as he released his grip on Stiles.

Stiles burst out of the water and pulled his arm back, tearing open the man's throat.

The mercenary collapsed to the ground, foaming waves pulling him beneath the surface.

Stiles staggered to his feet, water streaming down his face, dripping from his hair and his chin. His body felt weighed down by the clothes that clung to his body, his shirt and jeans soaked through. He spun around, looking at the two remaining mercenaries.

Stiles charged at the first man, grabbing the mercenary by the front of his shirt and hurling him aside. He threw the man back against the pump. The man cried out in pain and fell to his knees, taking a second to regain himself as he staggered to his feet and ran at Stiles.

Stiles ducked as the man swung his fist. He swiftly turned around and slammed his elbow into the man’s spine.

He cried out in pain as he fell to his knees.

The other mercenary grabbed him from behind, pulling him back in a chokehold. Stiles thrashed about, slamming his elbows into the man’s gut and wrestling against his grasp, but it wasn’t enough to break the man’s hold. Tears welled in his eyes as he choked, his lungs filling with fire. He tightened his rip on the knife and swung it back into the man’s side.

He felt streams of blood spill over his hand as he pulled his arm back, the man crying out in pain as he let Stiles go.

Stiles spun around, swinging his leg and slamming into the man’s bleeding ribs. He heard a loud crack as bone broke beneath his blow.

The man let out a strangled gasp, blood dripping from his lips as he collapsed into the water.

The other mercenary ran at Stiles. He punched Stiles in the face, knocking him backwards. He grabbed Stiles’ wrist, twisting his arm and pinning it behind his back in a police hold. He wrenched Stiles’ wrist, making him drop the hunting knife.

Stiles clenched his jaw.

With his free hand, Stiles

Stiles balled his fist and slammed his knuckles against the man’s jaw.

The man’s head jerked to the side with a loud crack as his body fell weakly into the water.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, lifting his gaze to the ridge where Erica stood. Loose strands of her blonde hair clung to her face. A thin ribbon of blood streamed from the gash above her eye, trailing down across her pale cheek. Blotches of red, black, blue and purple blossomed on her temple where the man had kicked her.

“You okay?” Stiles called up to her.

“I’m fine,” she said dismissively.

He watched as Erica skirted around the edge of the cavern and dropped down to a lower embankment.

A man stepped out of the trees, a rifle in his grasp and aimed at Erica.

Erica turned on her heels, grabbing the gun and breaking the man’s hold. She caught the mercenary’s wrist and hurled him over the cliff edge and into the water. “There’s another one for you.”

“Erica!” Stiles objected, anger and betrayal filling his voice.

He charged forward, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hurling him at the jagged ricks of the cavern wall. He slammed the man against the rocks and dragged him down into the shallows. He balled his fist and slammed it into the man's jaw, a loud crack echoing about the cavern as the man's body fell still.

Stiles staggered back, his shoulders rising and falling as he heaved in deep breaths and tried to calm himself.

"Okay, enough of this frivolity," Erica said, sounding bored as she shrugged the strap of the sniper rifle over her shoulder and kicked a length of rope down to Stiles.

Stiles rolled his eyes, grabbed the rope and scaled up to the ledge.

"So, now what?" Erica asked. "We follow the pipe to the camp?"

Stiles' eyes followed the long length of black piping that rose from the pump and snaked through the jungle, weaving its way through the trees and along the dirt path worn through the greenery.

"What's the bet that pipe will take us right to the camp?" Stiles muttered as he shook the stray droplets free of his tousled hair and began to follow the track.

It wasn't long before they stopped before another ridge, crouching beneath a mossy boulder as they looked down at the camp.

The campsite sat atop the marsh, the hollows filled with pooling water and brown sludge. At eh far end of the camp was a wooden structure, a watch tower. The open windows were draped with netting that had strands of khaki fabric tied to it for camouflage. Hidden away at the top of the tower were rifles—leaning back against the wooden half-walls—and large crates of ammunitions. Below the watch tower was a level platform with a shed-like structure built atop of it, one wall left open and facing the camp and about a dozen sleeping bags, packs and boxes of rations stored away inside of it. Across the camp large wooden cabin had been built atop the raised plain, a wooden porch leading into the open doorway and the large open windows that looked into the cabin.

Stiles furrowed his brow, looking down at the camp with confusion. Something was wrong.

“Okay,” Erica whispered. “You ready?”

“Hold on a second,” Stiles muttered, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, looking across the campsite at the large cabin.

In the open window stood a familiar figure: Lydia.

She leant against the window frame, wearing a black shirt and fading blue jeans. Her copper curls had been pulled back into a braid and her sparkling green eyes were focused on the two figures in the room.

Stiles turned his gaze to the open doorway, spying the large tables set up in the room. Stacks of paper and scattered artefacts sat atop the tables.

Beside one of the tables stood a young man.

Stiles felt his blood boil.

“Jackson,” he seethed.

“You knew we were going to run into him,” Erica said calmly.

“I know,” Stiles replied, trying to shake the image of Jackson’s smug smile out of his head as the trailing echo of his voice filled Stiles’ ears: “ _Face it, genius. You've been played”_.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, letting his anger subside as he turned his attention to the man standing next to Jackson.

The man’s pale grey eyes were locked on Jackson, their lack of colour emphasised by padded, black armour he wore: a black tee-shirt that revealed the pale scars which covered his arms, a thick vest, black jeans and mud-scuffed boots. A hunting knife was strapped to his vest and another to his calf. Two holsters were strapped to his belt, each with a pistol strapped into them. His face was worn with lines of age, creasing his cheeks, shaping his brow and hollowing out his eyes. His hook nose stood out and his long chestnut brown hair had been slicked back from his face. His chin was shadowed by the slight scruff of a beard.

“That must be Deucalion,” Stiles muttered.

The man maintained his stern expression and emotionless composure, his eyes hollow eyes filling with anger, as he spoke, “We’ve been here three months— _three months_ —and you have found nothing.”

“Wait a minute,” Jackson said defensively, stammering slightly. “We’ve been-”

“Commander!” a soldier called out.

Deucalion turned and stepped out of the open door, his pale eyes fixed on the soldier who approached.

Jackson followed him, seemingly relieved for the interruption

“This man was caught stealing artefacts from sight five,” the soldier announced, shoving forward the one of the mercenaries, his hands bound behind his back and his eyes wide with fear. The soldier held out his hand and handed over the artefact.

Deucalion turned it over in his hand, a dry laugh escaping his lips as he asked, “You would betray me for this?”

He tossed the artefact into the pooling water below the platform.

“No, Sir, I can explain-” the man stammered.

“No need,” Deucalion said shortly. He took a step forward and, with one swift movement, drew the knife strapped to his chest and slammed it into the man’s gut.

The mercenary let out a strangled gasp as the blade tore through flesh and bone. Droplets of crimson dripped from the man’s lips as blood gushed from his wound, streaming down the blade and over Deucalion’s fingers.

Deucalion wretched the blade from the man’s chest, letting his body fall weakly into the shallow water.

“I am surrounded by traitors and fool!” he howled, his eyes snapping to Jackson.

Stiles lowered his binoculars.

“What do you say we really ruin this guy’s day?” Erica said, a wicked hint of joy in her voice.

Stiles turned to look at her.

A mischievous smirk was spread across her face as she looked at him, holding up the detonator.

Stiles couldn’t help but grin. “Do it.”

Erica pressed the button.

There was a moment of silence before the air was split by a thundering boom. The world around them lit up with a brilliant glow as the flames erupted above the treetops.

Stiles turned to look at Deucalion, watching as the man’s eyes filled with livid rage.

“Spread out!” he shouted. “Search the perimeter!”

Soldiers scrambled about, grabbing guns and ammunition as before hurrying into the jungle.

Deucalion turned on his heels, his eyes focused on Lydia and Jackson as he said, “You two, with me.”

Deucalion stormed into the forest, Lydia and Jackson following as they disappeared into the shadows.

“Alright, it's showtime,” Erica said quietly. She shrugged the sniper rifle off her shoulder, pulling back the lever and cocking it. “I’ll cover you from up here.”

Stiles vaulted over the log and dropped down into the camp, ducking behind one of the large wooden crates.

Two guards remained behind in the compound, pacing back and forth across the wooden walkways. They held their semi-automatics before themselves, attentive as they moved across the compound.  One of the guards began to move towards where Stiles was crouched behind the crate.

Stiles sprung into action. He swung his leg out and slammed his boot into the man’s groin, dropping him to the ground. He grabbed the man’s gun and wrenched it from his hold, slamming the butt into the man’s face. Blood sprayed across the wooden platforms, dripping from the man’s mouth as he collapsed against the walkway, his eyes falling shut and his body limp.

Stiles hoisted the strap of the semi-automatic over his shoulder and moved across the platforms, hiding in the shadows of trees and behind the scattered wooden crates.

The second guard stood on the decking in front of Deucalion’s cabin, surveying the camp.

Stiles crept up beneath the elevated platform, crouching in the shadows. He listened as the man’s footsteps drew closer to the edge. He looked up and saw the barrel of the man’s gun over the railing. He leapt up and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, hauling him over the railing and down onto the lower deck.

The two of them wrestled as they rolled across the platform.

Stiles wound up on top, pinning the man down and pressing the gun against this throat. The man struggled to fight back, his arms flailing about, his breath choked in his throat and his eyes wide with rage and fear. Eventually he fell still.

Stiles staggered to his feet and made his way back over to the decking. He grabbed the railing and vaulted onto the elevated platform. He sprinted into Deucalion’s cabin, skidding to a halt before the table covered in papers. He looked at the scattered pages: files, typed documents, letters, photographs of explorers and treasures, maps and illustrations of artefacts.

“Whoa,” he muttered. “This Deucalion guy isn’t screwing around, Erica. You should see this stuff. He's got files on every expedition to find Shambhala, dating all the way back to the 1600s.”

“What about Marco Polo’s journals?” Erica asked.

Stiles pushed aside a few pieces of paper, chuckling to himself as he found the photocopied images of Marco Polo’s journals, the scrawls of black ink smeared across aging papers. “Found them.”

“Hurry it up, we don’t have much time,” Erica insisted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said dismissively as his eyes scanned the pages, translating the letters, “‘ _The worthy pilgrim is granted a golden passport to conquer obstacles on his journey to Shambhala_ ’.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Erica asked.

“Beats me,” Stiles replied as he set down the letter and picked up another. “Hold on, here we go. ‘ _It was with great sorrow that I left my fellow travellers to their fate – a fate decreed by the dreadful cargo we bore from Shambhala_.’”

“They must have thought that tsunami was some kind of divine retribution,” Erica muttered.

Stiles picked up another page of the photocopied image, his eyes rolling across the script.

“Wait a minute,” Stiles said quietly. “Damn.”

“What?” Erica asked, suddenly alert.

“I don’t think the Cinitmani Stone is here,” Stiles replied.

“What?”

“Listen to this,” Stiles said. “‘ _I would have sooner endured the wrath of Kublai Khan himself than remove the Cintamani Stone from that sacred shrine_.'”

“What does that mean?” Erica asked.

“It means Marco Polo never had the Stone,” Stiles explained.

“Then what ‘dreadful cargo’ is he talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles muttered.

“Well, if the Stone’s not here, what the hell is Deucalion looking for?” Erica asked.

“I don’t know,” Stiles repeated. He looked up at the topographical mat pinned to the wall. The canvas was covered in pins, colourful flags and red lines, photos of explorers, artefacts, mountain rages and more. There were scattered pieces of script and yellow sticky notes with scribbled notes. Realisation hits him and his heart sinks into his gut as the world falls from his mouth, “Shambhala.”

“Here, in Borneo?” Erica scoffed. “He’s a little wide of the mark, don’t you think?”

“No,” Stiles replied. “He must be trying to pick up Marco Polo’s trail… back to Shambhala.”

“Why?”

“Because the Stone is still there.” Stiles stepped away from the desk. “Lydia, can you talk?”

There was a moment of silence before she replied, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“In all this digging they’ve done, have Deucalion’s people found any bodies or remains at all?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Lydia replied. “Now that you mention it, nothing. Why?”

Stiles chuckled. “Over six hundred people were shipwrecked here and there’s no bodies? Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

“Then where’d they go?” Lydia asked, her voice in his ear.

Stiles looked back up at the topographical map of Borneo, his fingers tracing the lines.

“If a tsunami his, where would you go?” he prompted.

“To higher ground,” Lydia said, a hint of realisation in her voice.

“Exactly,” Stiles said. “If we head to that mountain, what’s the bet we find Marco’s crew? Lydia, can you meet up with us?”

“Already on my way,” she replied.

“Uh, Stiles,” Erica interrupted. “You need to get out of there.”

“Give me a minute,” Stiles said.

“You don’t have a minute.”

Then stiles heard them, the voices of men returning to the camp. He turned around, looking out into the compound to see armoured guards crossing the wooden platforms, finding the two guards unconscious.

“Oh crap,” Stiles muttered.

Stiles dove beneath the window, pressing his back against the wooden panelling as the voices drew closer. He drew his pistol from the holster strapped to his chest, quietly cocking it.

“Think you can get out of there without being spotted?” Erica asked.

“Not likely,” Stiles whispered.

“I’ve got you covered. Just stay low.”

There was a thundering bang as a bullet tore through the air, followed by a loud thud as a body hit the ground. Another shot and another guard down.

Stiles took his chance, leaping to his feet and sprinting across the compound. The guards were too preoccupied trying to find out where the shots were coming from that they didn’t see Stiles dive behind a tree. He pressed his back against the twisted trunk, trying to catch his breath.

He turned his head to the side, noticing one of the guards that crossed the walkway.

The guard turned, spying Stiles.

Stiles raised his gun and fired, the bullet hitting the man between his eyes before he could alert anyone. But it was too late, another guard grabbed him from behind, pulling Stiles into the open. Stiles thrashed about, unable to steady his legs or pull himself free of the man’s grip.

His ears filled with the thundering pulse of his heartbeat, but beyond the noise he heard Erica say, “I’ve got you.”

The next thing he knew there was a thundering back and a spray of warm droplets across Stiles’ face, like summer rain. Stiles held his breath, blinking slowly as he steadied himself on his feet. He heard the man’s body hit the ground, glancing down to see the bullet hole in the side of his head.

Stiles choked on his breath, kicking up his heels and running towards the forest.

Gunshots rained around him until everything went silent and the camp was full of unmoving bodies.

Stiles stumbled up the slope, his legs sliding beneath him as he ran to Erica’s side.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she whispered catching him before he fell over. She pulled her flask from her hip and unscrewed the lid, holding it out for Stiles. “Here. Wash it off.”

Stiles took the flask with a shaking hand, pouring the water into the palm of his hand before smearing it over his face, washing away the blood that was sprayed across his face. Once done, he held the flask out for her to take and muttered, “Thank you.”

He tried to steady his breathing, looking around at the dense greenery. He nodded towards a faded dirt track among the jungle. “That way.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Erica asked, looking at him with concern.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said dismissively.

Erica opened her mouth to argue, but Stiles didn’t give her the chance; he holstered his gun and took off running down the track.

He vaulted over fallen logs and sprinted down the dusty track, heaving in deep breaths. His lungs filled with the rich scent of petrichor as the flittering shadows shaded him from the blazing sun. He dug the toes of his boots into the jagged slate that lead up to plateaus, swiftly scaling up to the raised platforms.

He climbed up clutsered boulders until he reached a level, grassy plateau.

Before him, the large trees arced into a tunnel, their folliage cassting shadows across the fanning leaves of the ferns that lined the track worn through the bush.

He took a step forward and looked at the smooth face of a large grey boulder, It had been chissled to reveal a pattern, a mess of symbols Stiles couldn’t quite make sense of.

“Erica,” he called over his shoudler. “Look at these stones.”

“Looks like we’re getting somewhere,” Erica said, finally catching up with him. She brushed some of the dirt and moss off of the rocks and inspected the carvings for a second before rising to her feet. “Let’s get going.”

Stiles and Erica made their way down the small track, stepping out into the open space where the raised ground was lined with snow stpes made from slabs of slate. They  bounded up the steps and passed the large, twisted trees until they stopped before a large tree that had been hollowed out.

“Would you look at that,” Erica muttered, taking a step forward and looking down into the darkness below the trunk.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called.

Erica and Stiles turned around to see Lydia jogging up to their sides. Her jade eyes grew wide as she saw the hollowed out entrance the cavern. “What do we have here?”

“With any luck, the last resting place of Marco Polo's crew,” Stiles answered.

“Shall we check it out?” Lydia said, gesturing for Stiles to go first.

“Whatever happened to ‘Ladies first’,” Stiles teased.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid,” Lydia scoffed.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Erica groaned. She stepped forward and lead the way into the darkness.

Switching on their flashlights, Stiles and Lydia followed. Stiles looked around at the ruins of the old building built behind the tree; stone walls holding back the dirt and slate covering the floors. Bricks had fallen out of place; knocked out of the walls by sliding dirt or fallen from the ceiling as roots pushed their way through the soil and hung above them like twisted chandeliers. The fallen bricks and broken stones lay scattered across the floor.

“This place must be thousands of years old,” Lydia remarked, admiring the stone walls.

“This way,” Erica called over her shoulder as she dropped down into a hole in the ground.

Stiles listened for the sound of her boots hitting the ground as she landed with a quiet grunt. Lydia and Stiles followed her into the darkness, gagging as the rancid smell of rotting flesh filled their noses.

Stiles lifted his torch and looked around. The beam of light cut through the darkness, revealing the twisted skeletons that filled the cavern.

“Looks like we hit the jackpot,” Stiles said, lifting his shirt to cover his mouth.

“There must be hundreds of bodies down here,” Lydia said, covering her face with her arm.

“About six hundred?” Erica proposed.

Stiles frowned in confusion, crouching before one of the skeletons.

“Look at their teeth,” he said, glancing from one skeleton to another, then another. “They’re all black.”

Erica looked at the skeletons she stood by. “Oh god,” she muttered. “They’re all like that.”

“What could have caused it?” Lydia asked, glancing at Stiles.

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe it was something they ate? They must have taken refuge here from the tsunami. There’s got to be some sort of clue around here.”

Stiles crossed the large cavers, stepping past a large pillar and down into a lowered room. He turned about, the light of his torch rolling over scattered wooden barrels. Some lay on their side, others shattered into splintered wood, but all of them were empty.

“Hey, I think I found something,” he called out, his voice echoing through the darkness.

Lydia joined him, looking at the scattered barrels. “Looks like they carried their cargo all the way up here after they were shipwrecked.”

Stiles walked up to one of the barrels, the light of his torch reflecting of pieces of blue resin. He reached into the barrel and picked it up, holding it up to his nose as he sniffed it.

“If you lick that, I swear to god,” Erica said warningly.

“It’s resin,” Stiles explained. “I’ve seen this before.”

He picked up an old torch that lay by his feet, pushing the scattered pieces of resin towards the top of it. “Erica, you got a light?”

Erica dug into her pocket for her lighter, passing it to Stiles. He flipped open the top and struck the flint. It sparked as a flickering flam burst to life. Stiles lowered the flame to the blue resin, watching as it burst into fire, lighting the room with an eerie blue glow.

“Whoa,” Erica muttered, stunned.

He lifted the torch higher. Erica and Lydia turned off their flashlights, letting the blue glow light the room. Smears of fluorescent puddles stretched across the floor like ink.

“What is that?” Lydia asked.

“Blood,” Stiles answered.

“It’s everywhere,” Erica noted, turning around in circles as the torchlight lit the glowing puddles. “This was a massacre.”

“Alright,” Stiles said slowly, drawing in a deep breath as he thought things through. “Let’s follow the blood and see if they lead somewhere.”

“You do realise that sounds like a horror movie, right?” Erica asked sceptically.

Stiles rolled his eyes, stepping around her and following the trail of fluorescent smears, splashes across the pillars and the walls, and inky puddles that had dried up centuries ago. He followed the trail into the room opposite the one filled with barrels, passing scattered, twisted bodies. The trail led into another room connected to the main cavern and several winding hallways that finally ended at an entrance that was blocked by toppled rocks.

He shoved at the rocks, feeling them move slightly. He backed up a few steps and passed his burning torch to Erica before charging at the rocks, slamming his shoulder into the wall. There was a loud crash as the boulders crumbled and crashed against the tiled floor, revealing another path.

Stiles rubbed at his shoulder. “Ow.”

“Why must you always do things the difficult way?” Erica scolded him.

“The trail leads in here,” Lydia said, following the dark stain.

“Oh man,” Erica muttered, snarling in disgust as she handed Stiles his torch. “More bodies.”

Stiles turned about in circles, looking at the twisted bodies. “Maybe I’m crazy, but it looks like they killed each other.”

“You’re just getting spooked,” Lydia said.

They followed the narrow room to where one skeleton that was slouched back against toppled rocks.

“Look at this,” Stiles called, hurrying over to the skeleton. He tossed the torch aside, the blue light of the flames dying away.

Lydia and Erica pulled out their flashlights, lighting the darkness as Stiles crouched before the skeleton.

“What do we have here?” Stiles muttered.

There was something sitting in the man’s arms. Stiles reached out for the wooden box that was clutched to the skeleton’s chest.

“Careful,” Lydia warned.

Stiles grabbed the artefact and started to pull it away from the skeleton. A panicked scream tore out of his chest.

Lydia and Erica stumble backwards, their screams echoing through the cavern with his.

Stiles pulled the artefact free of the skeleton’s hold and held it up, a shit-eating grin spread across his face as he chuckled. “Just kidding.”

“You son of a-” Erica kicked his leg. “I’m going to kill you, I swear to God.”

Lydia stood, doubled over and trying to catch her breath.

Stiles chuckled as he rose to his feet. He opened the box and found a scroll inside. He picked up the scroll and tossed the box aside, unfurling the paper. A heavy silver object rolled into his hand. He caught it before it fell to the ground, turning it over in his hand.

The metal was twisted to into the shape of three demonic faces that were fitted around the hilt, framing the vibrant blue sapphire that was fixed into the pommel. Three blades were drawn to a point.

“What is that?” Lydia asked. “Some kind of weapon?”

“No, it’s a Phurba,” Stiles explained, “It’s a ritual object, from Tibet. It’s used to destroy obstacles, spiritual ones.”

“Could that be what Marco Polo was talking about?” Erica asked. “In one of the journals, he said something about a worthy seeker…”

“‘ _The worthy pilgrim is granted a golden passport to conquer obstacles on his journey to Shambhala_ ’,” Stiles recited.

“So, this is it?” Lydia asked. “This is supposed to destroy the obstacles on the way to Shambhala? That’s great, but where _is_ Shambhala?”

“Maybe the map will help,” Erica said, nodding to the unfurled scroll in his hand.

Stiles passed the Phurba to Erica and held out the scroll, reading an inscription, “‘ _Between Greater India and the province of Tibet lies a field of exquisitely finished temples, hundreds of gilded spires stretching as far as the eye can see_ ’.”

“Hold on, I know this place,” Erica said. “It’s in Nepal.”

“Yeah, except it’s not just a field of temples anymore, it’s a city,” Stiles pointed out.

Lydia gnawed at her lip. “That could make things a little more challenging.”

“Hold on, there’s more,” Stiles said. “' _In all these many temples, only one conceals the secret path to Shambhala - and that path shall only be revealed to the pilgrim who bears the golden passport_ ’.”

The three of them looked at the Phurba in Erica’s hands.

“Okay, let’s get going,” Lydia said, turning to leave the cavern. “I'm going to go out and make sure the coast is clear. See you in a bit.”

Erica passed the Phurba back to Stiles and he slid it into the small of his back, letting it sit on his belt. They followed Lydia back through the labyrinth of tunnels and rooms. Stiles scaled up one of the pillars, using the carved ridges and ornate details as grips and foot holes as he climbed back up through the hole and into the cavern beneath the tree.

“Stiles, can you give me a hand?” Erica called up to him.

Stiles knelt by the edge of the hole, reaching down and offering his hand to Erica.

She grabbed his arm and helped lift her up into the cavern.

As they rose to their feet and dusted themselves off, they heard the sound of voices coming from outside.

“Damn it,” Erica muttered.

Lydia came rushing back in through the opening.

“Jackson, in here!” she shouted over her shoulder drawing her gun from the holster in the small of her back and pointing it at them. “It’s Stilinski!”

Stiles blinked in confusion. “Lydia, what the-?”

“Get your hands up!” Lydia ordered, interrupting him.

Stiles stood still, refusing to do as she said.

Erica raised her hands, leaning towards Stiles slightly as she muttered, “You sure know how to pick them.”

“Shut up,” Stiles whispered back. “And this isn’t my fault. You’re the one who brought her with you when you bailed me out and I told you we were safer in jail.”

Erica was about to reply when Jackson and three armed guards ran into the cavern beneath the hollowed-out tree. Jackson slowed to a halt, his pale eyes focused on Stiles.

“Should've known it was you,” Jackson seethed, glaring at Stiles. His eyes shifted to the side, his brow lifting quizzically. “And Erica Reyes, that’s a surprise. I thought they chained you up like the bitch you are.”

Stiles took a started forward but Erica grabbed his arm, halting him.

“Easy, Stiles,” she whispered.

“That’s right, Stiles,” Jackson said smugly. “Be a good boy and behave. After all, you’ve just spent the past three months behind bars, do you really think you can take me?”

“I can take you any day,” Stiles replied. “Besides, three months in jail is better than pissing away three months in the jungle without a clue.”

 “I found the ships, didn’t I?” Jackson said, gesturing to the hole behind Stiles.

“You couldn’t find your own ass with both hands,” Stiles scoffed.

“And a map,” Erica added.

Stiles fought a smile.

Lydia took a step forward, lowering her gun and kicking aside Stiles’ feet before frisking him. She pulled the Phurba from his belt and the scroll from the pocket on Stiles’ hip. She unfurled the map and glanced over it before holding it out for Jackson to see.

“Speaking of maps,” Jackson said, a smug smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His pale eyes scanned the map as he read the script at the bottom, translating the notes, “Between India and… Tibet... one temple will reveal a-”

“-pathway to Shambhala,” Stiles finished with an exaggerated eyeroll before adding, “Jesus, Jackson, while we're young.”

Jackson folded up the map and pocketed it. He turned to the guards.

“Take them to Deucalion.” He glared at Stiles and added, “You're going to wish you'd stayed in prison.”

Lydia stepped behind Stiles, lifting her gun again as she sharply said, “Move. And don’t even think about trying anything.”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh as he stepped forward. Erica walked beside him, two of the armed guards keeping their guns trained on them as they made their way towards the glaring light that seeped in through the opening in the hollow tree.

The third guard stayed behind with Jackson as he shoved past Stiles and made his way down into the dark cavern below.

“Keep moving,” one of the guard barked, shoving Erica with the barrel of his gun.

Stiles saw her grimace, her face screwed up as she fought her rising rage.

They made their way back down the dirt track, stumbling down the slate stairs as the guards shoved and pushed them.

In one swift movement, Lydia pistol whipped one of the guards.

The other soldier spun around, aiming his AK-47 at her and pulling the trigger.

Stiles spun around and slammed his elbow into the man’s face, knocing him back as bullets rained around Lydia.

She hissed in pain as she lifted her gun and fired, the bullets tearing through the man’s chest and dropping him to the ground.

The other soldier groaned as he rose to his arms. Lydia spun around and fired another shot, blood spraying across the earth as the man’s body fell still.

Lydia cupped her hand over her arm, feeling the streams of blood that flowed across her fingers. She winced in pain and hissed, “Ah, shit.”

“Are you alright?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah,” Lydia said dismissively. “It’s just a graze. It'll make it look more believable.” She glanced over her shoulder before looking back at Stiles. She pulled the Phurba from her belt and handed it to him. “I'm going to try to buy you some time.”

“Lydia, come with us,” Stiles pleaded.

“No, just meet me in Nepal.” She craned her neck and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “Now, go. Run.”

Stiles reluctantly stepped back, setting his hand on Erica’s back as he turned towards a branching path. “Let’s go.”

They kicked up their heels, sprinting down the twisting path that ran along the cliff’s edge.

“I like her,” Erica said.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Stiles replied, rolling his eyes.

The sound of raised voices echoed through the forest.

“Shit, they’re after us,” Erica said. “Run!”

They sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the thick tree trunks and toppled boulters. They leapt over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, bursting into the open and following the dirt path that ran along the edge of the cliff. The rocky bluffs broke away, leaving jagged exposed rocks and an uneven track.

Stiles tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip.

Broken breaths fell past his lips, his heart hammering against his ribs as he heaved in deep breaths.

The sounds of the mercenaries trailed after them, echoing shouts and thundering footsteps like a stampede coming their way.

The track ahead has broken away, a gap dividing the cliff.

“Jump,” he shouted back to Erica, not breaking stride as he kicked off the edge of the cliff and leapt to the other side. His legs crumbled beneath him as he rolled to a stop. He scrambled back to his feet, reaching out for Erica as she caught the narrow ledge below the gap. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her back up, helping her to her feet and gently guiding her in front of him. “Run. Run!”

They sprinted down the track, pivoting their ankles as they rounded a corner.

A startled cry broke past Erica’s lips as she slid to a halt, digging her heels into the dirt. Stiles stumbled into her, grabbing her shoulders and pulled her close as they looked down over the sheer drop of the craggy cliff edge.

“What now?” Erica asked.

“Jump,” Stiles said, moving to stand beside her.

“Are you out of your mind?” she shrieked. “We’ll break out necks.”

“If we don’t, Deucalion will break them for us,” Stiles retorted.

“I don't have your luck,” Erica argued.

“Erica, we're going to get out of this, okay?” Stiles reassured her. “We always do.”

“Yeah, you go meet your girl in Nepal. I’m going somewhere warm, like Fiji,” Erica mumbled, staring down at the deep sapphire-blue waters.

“Come on, Erica,” Stiles whispered.

Erica gently nudged his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. You can tell me all about it when you get back.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the charging mercenaries.

“Oh shit,” Stiles muttered under his breath.

Erica drew in a deep breath, exhaling heavily as she said, “Well, shall we?”

Stile forced a smile. “After you.”

“I’ll see you in hell,” she farewelled as she kicked off the ledge. A cry escaped her lips as she plummeted towards the water.

“Oh crap,” Stiles muttered. The thundering noise of his heartbeat matched the sound of the mercenaries drawing closer. He drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second as he kicked off the edge of the cliff.

He heart lurched as the ground disappeared beneath him, his breath catching in his throat as he was thrown forward.

His heart slammed against his ribs, his chest hollow and aching.

The world around him was silent.

The air rushed past him as he plummeted and crashed into the ocean.

The foaming waves pulled him underwater, the sky disappearing as the water pulled him down into the immersive depths.

 

 

Jackson skidded to a halt at the edge of the cliff, his eyes filled with a burning rage as he watched the foaming water dissipate and the rippling waves settle. Two figures emerged from the water, drawing breath as they began to swim away.

He was livid, his jaw tense as he seethed, “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update this, it's a really long chapter and I've been really busy as of late. That being said, it's probably going to be a while between chapters. Sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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